


Avengers: The Rubbish Bin

by GalaxyThreads



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avenger Loki (Marvel), Avengers Family, But they tried, Come for ideas, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Avengers (2012), Precious Peter Parker, Snippets, The "Vault", Things that didn't make actual fics, This is literally all of the junk work--that sounds terrible, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyThreads/pseuds/GalaxyThreads
Summary: Snippets that didn't make it into stories, along with discontinued works. (No slash, no smut)





	1. Chapter 1

******So I have about 120,000+ words of junk sitting in a document, and I was looking over it for a few minutes a couple of months ago and decided to leave it out here as an idea generator for my fellow writers, and abruptly cut of scenes for everyone else. :)**

**There is NO smut, slash, non-con, or incest in this. Language is all K, loves!**

**IF YOU DECIDE TO BASE STORIES OFF OF THESE-** **_leave me credit_ ** **_please!_ ** **You can ask, but you don't** **_have_ ** **to, although I would love to read it, so let me know if you do! Credit will look like this: "Based off of GalaxyThread's 'Avengers: The Rubbish Bin'" Thank you! =D**

**Everyone else-enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I had this huge goal to create a one-shot series based on Peter and Tony's relationship, but...that didn't happen. #GotBored. This is a small, sort of connected jumping bits...so yep.
> 
> Characters: Tony, Peter, other medical people
> 
> Warnings: Uh...poison?
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

There are few things that Tony Stark truly despises in this world but being woken up after he finally remembers he's a human being and one of the necessities being so is sleep, is one of those. Letting out a rather loud and obnoxious groan Tony grabs his blanket, his nice, warm, soft blanket and pulls it over his head. "Fr'day." He mumbles.

The call is silenced and Tony gives a sigh of relief not really caring that it's the middle of the night and it's probably urgent. Whoever is calling can tell him the urgent message...tomorrow. He doesn't care right now. His bed is calling and who is he to deny it's love?

The phone blares again and Tony childishly grabs his pillow pulling it over his ears. Friday doesn't silence it and he glares at the ceiling for a moment showing his displeasure with her actions before finally rolling over towards the bedside table hand smacking against it as he reaches for his phone.

His annoying, singing, loud, phone.

"Friday…" He moans. Friday is quiet for a moment before her loud, blaring voice pounds into his head. Being realistic, it was rather silent but at the moment it's anything but that: "Boss, Peter Parker is calling."

Tony flips his phone on slightly annoyed but some concern is building. "Why? Does he know that it's," Tony pauses his angry rant to glance up at the clock, "Three twenty seven in the morning? I swear if this is nothing…" He grumbles mostly to himself swinging his feet over the bed and answering the call ignoring Friday's snarky response of: "I don't suspect so, Boss."

"Peter? You are aware it's the middle of the night right? Because I really don't want to have to-" Tony starts to ramble in annoyance but is cut off as Peter completely ignores his previous words.

"Mr. Stark?"

The two words sound like a gasping breath and Tony's immediately more alert and jerks upwards in the bed pushing the phone against his ear more aggressively as if it will somehow make Peter talk more.

"Peter?" He questions in response.

"I-I'm sorry," The teen's voice is slurring. Tony's concern grows more. Tony glances down at his clothing, he didn't change before he crashed. Tony glances around blurrily trying to locate shoes and socks he almost misses Peter's next few words: "To interrupt your sleep. Can I crash at your place?"

"What, why?" Tony asks and stands eyes sweeping around the dark room looking for a pair of socks.

Peter hesitates, "Please Mr. Stark? If not, I totally understand, I can call Ned, actually I think that I'll do that-"

"It's fine," Tony interrupts. If Peter can do it, he can too. That's the way it works. Where are his socks? Tony stumbles towards the dresser ripping open the top drawer. Ah, his lovely socks. "I have more than enough rooms...just why?"

"I-I…" Peter trails off for a moment.

Tony's eyebrows meet in confusion for a moment and he pauses, "What about your aunt?"

Peter is quiet.

A dread settles in Tony's stomach.

"Peter, did something happen?" Tony asks moving back towards the bed his socks in hand. He sits on the edge and shoves a sock onto his right foot.

"N-no." Peter answers quickly.

"I really hate to be the person to tell you this kiddo, but you are a terrible liar." Tony sighs slightly. "Where are you? You can come over, we'll talk then."

Peter gives a quiet sigh of relief, "Thank you Mr. Stark. I'm about ten minutes away. Also, do you have bandages?"

000o000

Tony stumbles into the living room of Avengers Tower (of which he didn't sell after some debate) roll of gauze in one hand looking semi like a normal human being. His hair is probably a mess but he couldn't care less. Where is Peter? It's been almost fifteen minutes. He did say ten right?

"Boss, Mr. Parker has landed outside."

Okay. Great. Tony moves forward as Peter shoves the glass door open looking like he got ran over by a truck. Tony raises an eyebrow suddenly much more confident in his bed ruffled appearance.

Peter looks up at him giving a sigh of relief and a small lopsided grin. His suit is torn across his chest where said Parker has a hand wrapped around it. Tony points towards the couch and Peter moves towards it looking highly uncomfortable. Though it's been about four months since the Vulture debacle, Peter hasn't really been in the tower. Usually Tony and him meet up other places rather than here. Okay..the two times since then. Peter stopped spamming his voice mail and Tony was subconsciously thinking about tracking him down if he didn't show his face soon.

Peter collapses on the couch hissing slightly and Tony takes a seat across him. "Friday, get the lights will you?" Tony asks.

"Certainly, Boss." Friday says and the lights brighten slightly. Tony frowns as he stares at the bleeding wound before moving his hand forward to grab Peter's wrist and move his hand. Peter flinches slightly and Tony frowns.

"This is bad. What did you do? Sit under a laser?"

"No," Peter protests. He runs a hand through his dirty hair, "there was just this guy with a knife and it and me didn't agree to much."

""Too much"? You look like you got ran over by a lawn mower." Tony argues. Peter flinches as Tony moves his hand away from the long, deep cut across his ribcage. The older of the two gives a low whistle.

"Okay, I'll admit it, I am impressed."

Peter grumbles something that Tony doesn't catch but the Stark still raises an eyebrow like he did. "I'm not a surgeon, Kid."

"I...I didn't think you were. I'm just...it hurts...and...May is going to kill me!" Peter jerks upwards and nearly collides foreheads with Tony. Said Stark tips backwards in surprise and his eyebrows meet in concern as Peter gives a cry of pain and promptly crumbles onto the floor.

Tony bites his lip slightly and sighs through his teeth before leaning down and grabbing Peter's shoulder. The concern is building to anxiety swirling through his chest like a bird with a broken wing and Tony grips the limb beneath his right hand slightly tighter before shaking him several times.

"Underoos? Peter? Peter, answer me." All humor is stripped from his voice as the teen doesn't respond and Tony flips Peter onto his back letting out a soft curse as he sees how pale the high schooler is.

"Peter? Peter this isn't funny, wake up." Tony commands his voice growing louder and slightly more high pitched in his panic. Peter remains limp and Tony lurches for the bandages on the couch fingers wrapping around the white cloth before he rips the layer of tape off to keep it in a tight ball and begins to wrap it around the worst of the wounds.

"Friday, where's the nearest hospital?" Tony demands tightening the strips. Steve gave the Avengers a crash course on medical care a few years back, so Tony isn't helpless but he's not Bruce.

"The nearest hospital is twenty minutes away, Boss. Although it doesn't appear Mr. Parker will make it that long. His vitals are crashing fast." Friday answers.

"What? Why?" Tony collects Peter's crumbled form into his arms bridal style noticing subconsciously that the teen is light. Is that normal? Are teenangers supposed to be heavier? Peter feels paper thin. That's not normal. He's shaking, he's dying.

The thought hits Tony like a brick through a window and he stumbles slightly.

Peter is dying.

He may never smile at him, ask his never ending stream of questions, save another person, be Spiderman, stutter, complain about homework ever again.

"Friday-!" He starts to shout but the AI beats him to it.

"I have already alerted the medical, Boss. You need to hurry." Her tone is lightly laced with worry and Tony can feel it pulsing beneath his veins like a second heart. He takes off into a sprint, trying to not jostle Peter to much but at the same time get their swiftly. Man, Peter's aunt isn't going to kill her nephew, she's going to kill him.

Tony crashes into the medial words flying from his mouth that don't make sense to him. Peter is taken from him gently and the panic only increases, "Wait! I have to see if he's okay. He-"

"Mr. Stark, you should sit down." One of the nurses, Melisa if he remembers right instructs putting a hand on his shoulder. No touchy! His mind argues violently. He has to get to Peter because it's suddenly collapsing on top of him that Peter is dying, and he was laughing and joking when Peter was in pain. He should have been serious from the start-and why oh why does he always mess up with Peter? He's always doing something wrong and now Peter's going to die when he could have stopped it and instead he might've been to slow. It's Pepper all over again and Rhodey, Cap...everyone he wasn't fast enough for.

"No!" Tony argues, "That's my kid! I have to be with him; I have to-"

"Mr. Stark I'm afraid that if you don't calm down we're going to have to sedate you." Melissa says. All fondness for the woman slips from him. Melissa grabs his shoulders and shoves him into a seat and he distantly notices that his hands are shaking and she pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. "We'll be in to give you an update in an hour or so. I need to go help them, will you be alright?"

No.

No he will not.

Not until Peter is.

He nods stiffly, anyway.

Melissa strides off down the hall and begins to yell orders as the door slams and everything grows quiet. Tony stares down at his shaking hands and lets out a slow breath trying not to slip into a panic attack. His left hand fumbles for his phone that he stuffed into his pocket earlier and he dials the first number. Please pick up, please pick up, I know it's early but please pick up…

"Tony?" Pepper's voice sends a rush of calm through him. Because though it isn't alright and he has the strong urge to punch something but scream and sob at the same time her voice is safe. Secure. "Is something wrong?"

Tony lets out a shaky breath. "Peter's injured. It's bad Pepper. There was so much blood and I-I-" His voice is shaking and sounds panicked and he's starting to realize that his lungs feel tight and he's not sure what to do about it. It he world supposed to be so blurry? No. That doesn't seem right.

"Tony, Babe," Pepper's voice grounds him to the present. "I'm on my way okay, but I'll be a few hours. I'm not going to hang up, breathe. Alright? Deep breaths. It's okay. Everything's alright. Peter will be fine."

Peter will be fine.

The words echo in his head softly and Tony gasps in a breath. "Okay. Okay. Yeah." He says and Pepper begins to talk to him softly. About how things are going at SI, how she wants to fire an employee badly but doesn't want to at the same time because she sees potential in him though he's driving her crazy, how she nearly burned down her apartment this morning when she wasn't paying attention to the eggs she was cooking. Anything and everything just rambling.

Tony slowly begins to calm down and even adds a comment here and there that makes Pepper laugh.

When she gets there close to four hours later, there still isn't any news. She sits down next to him and grabs his hand giving it a quick squeeze. Letting him know that she's here for him and that their going to make it through this. Tony gives her a grateful smile and the two raise their heads in almost sync as the doctor steps back into the room.

"Peter's stable for now. The blade was poisoned but we managed to flush it out, he's awake and you can see him now." Melissa says.

Tony gets to his feet and moves forward towards the room Pepper trailing behind him. When he steps into the room his heart flip-flops. Peter is still deathly pale and hooked to over a dozen machines but alive. His eyes are slitted and he gives a tired smile at the sight of Tony.

"Hey, Mr. Stark." His voice is quiet.

"Peter, I'm sorry. I just-I can't believe how stupid I reacted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: For how much I love Wanda and Pietro, I really haven't done anything with it. This was an idea I had so long ago to have the Winter Solider rescue Pietro and Wanda before Age of Ultron.
> 
> I...couldn't get the plot to work, so yeah, this is really more of a snippet, and Pietro and Wanda never made it into what I did write.
> 
> Characters: Bucky,
> 
> Warnings: Implied/referenced torture.
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

The Soldier didn't have emotions.

" _Wipe him; and start over."_

He wasn't supposed to, it tampered with missions and his goal, his purpose, was to complete them with perfect accuracy. It's who he is.  _What_ he was. He never delt with them before because they destroyed his purpose. Emotions tampered with things and made it explicitly harder to get what he was required to done.

He's supposed to be fast and efficient, with nothing tampering his focus. And he was.

The  _Winter Soldier_ is a name that was spoken with fear for the few who knew it-and why shouldn't it? He's a weapon, he's  _deadly._

He didn't deter from them. He didn't. He knew his purpose, what was the point of messing with it? There wasn't any. That was that, signed and sealed, packaged and received. He never felt the need to go against his programming because what he  _is_  is perfect, or so he's been told, over and over.

He's a weapon, weapons don't weep. They don't have emotions or a desire to change. They lock onto their target and destroy it. There isn't a desire-a  _pleading_ for knowledge beyond that of what they have. His missions, the ice, it's all he knows and all he  _needs_ to. There shouldn't be anything else.

Then why does he want more?

" _I knew him."_

The three little words shattered the little magical snow globe of ignorance and innocence he'd been carrying like a ripple over the surface of water. He knew him. Did the man, Steve Rogers even realize what he's done? He ruined everything with his presence. Now, he's struggling to figure out where he stands. Like the beginning of spring after a long winter.

Rogers name brings the sense of  _family_ and the Soldier hates it. He's a weapon.

_He's a weapon._

Yet, he's still so, so  _human._

Where he's placed his feet feels awkward and shaky, almost like he's horribly off balance, leaning against a completed tilted world.

It's. Driving. Him. Insane.

Some would call him crazy, for coming back to pain but like an addiction, the Soldier couldn't stop. Programming or just the helplessness of it brought him dragging his feet towards the nearest Hydra base dirty, angry and confused.

" _I'm with you to the end of the line."_

He hates it-yet he can't stop thinking about Steve, Natalia and that day on the Helicarriers. It's playing on his mind in an endless loop and no matter how much hair tugging he does, it doesn't go away.

The first word he would use is: frustration. He can feel the edges of his mind scrambling to keep something from him, almost like overflowing bucket of water with the liquid spilling over the edges. There's something just so clearly  _there_ and he  _can't grasp it._ He's not supposed to want to though, and that's driving him to the brink of insanity. He want's to know but he  _can't._

The second word would be: sibling. Steve is familiar to him, almost like a lost younger brother he had no idea he was related to. Maybe they are-but that's insane because he's old and he  _knows_ he's old. Steve didn't look older than maybe twenty three-five. There's no way they could have known each other in his past life. He knows there's  _more_ though, than his programming and he wishes the worlds would stop battling and just let one victor.

Hydra didn't know what to do with him since S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed, now they're on the run and can't ship him out to Russia to put him on ice. It's the longest he's been awake except for the time he was tracking some famous person and he's not entirely sure what to think about it. It's truly pathetic, though, because he's always been so adapt to the missions than the ice there's been little time to actually let his thoughts drift.

It's strange. Yet thrilling.

The cell they put him in is small, dark and smells oddly of burning toast. He's not entirely sure where the burning smell came from and he has little desire to rip apart the facility to find out. There's a long chain attached to his ankle that he can move around the whole cell in with little difficulty if the grinding metal doesn't drive him crazy first. He can't break through the chain-even with his metal arm. It's made of some sort of reinforced steel that reminds the Soldier of Steve's shield.

He hasn't really shifted his position since he arrived here weeks ago. Only moving to grab the bits of food they stuff in and pace the length of the cell a dozen times over. With the serum he was injected with, his muscles don't get fatigue or wear out no matter how much he just sits there. He would have long been skin and bones if they could.

His dark hair is strung in front of his face blocking his vision slightly but he isn't paying attention to it. Or anything else, really. His mind is just drifting aimlessly. The door to the cell has a glass plating towards the top and he can see through it towards the brightly lit hallway beyond. He's pretty sure he's in the upper levels of the base-probably near the labs.

He's saw dozens of people walk by daily for a while, most of them didn't come back.

The Soldier shifts his position grinding his back against the cold wall but through the thick fabric of his shirt he can't feel the chill. He doesn't mind cold, really, it actually makes him think clearer. He doesn't like ice and goes out of his way to avoid it (which can get ridiculous with his missions that are more north) but he manages...sort of.

To be completely honest with himself, with only his thoughts for company, the Soldier is admittedly, uneasy. He hasn't seen anyone in over two months since he dragged himself back here and they tossed him into the cell. He hasn't tried to escape, just move around the cell pacing back and forth because (as much as he hates it) the Soldier is fidgety. It isn't an emotion he's used to, but being honest with himself, he isn't really familiar with  _any._

All he knows is the missions, compliance and loyalty.

Confusion is definitely at the top of the first ten emotions he's experienced. Rogers threw him far and hard. It showed him that there was something  _else_ beyond what he was made for. He doesn't know what to do with the information. On one hand, the Soldier would love to toss himself into the fray and see where it takes him; on the other he doesn't want to break his programming.

Maybe it's less that he  _doesn't._

More that he  _can't._

The Soldier lets out a soft sigh and leans back deeper into the wall. He's already pressing heavily into the cold stone so he's slightly impressed with himself that he managed to get any further. On the plus side, he supposes, he's properly caught up on any missed sleep. Not that he really needs to, he's spent  _years_ sleeping frozen.

The Soldier whips his head upwards as footsteps ring across the dirty ground in the hall between the cells. At least ten pairs of boots. There hasn't been this many men walking down the hall...ever. He hasn't heard this many as long as he's been down here which is starting to feel like a  _long, long_ time.

The Soldier stiffens considerably as the door to his cell screeches open. The man, Strucker, stands in the doorway his frame blocking out a lot of the light which the Soldier is grateful for. His eyes still sting at the light that does come through but he blinks several times, doing nothing else. He suddenly misses his glasses.

The Soldier rises to his feet in respect to his superior his legs numb from the position he's been sitting in, unmoving for days. He bites his lower lip but watches Strucker carefully. Has he come with a mission?

Strucker tosses something through the air that the Soldier catches by reflex with his metallic arm. He opens his palm to reveal a metallic key. The Soldier lowers his gaze to the chain wrapped around his boot before he kneels and shoves the key into the lock. The metal grinds against each other in a painful screech that he flinches at but the cuff falls away from his foot clanking against the ground.

"Asset," Strucker calls and the Soldier raises his head before straightening. "Come with me."

He isn't permitted to ask questions, but right now he wants to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...genderbend. It was a thing for a little. So...yeah.
> 
> Characters: Peter (genderbended), Tony, May,
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

She really should be used to the fact that her life and normal run in parallel lines; always near each other but never intersecting. She's never had a life of normal per-say since she was little, but things have only gotten worse since she got older. Maybe she should just start keeping a chart, "how many things can go wrong in one lifetime?" With her luck, she'll be on top of everyone else before she's in her twenties.

Prynn lets out another frustrated growl through her teeth and glares at the large, black, hissing cat sitting on the DVD player. It's in perfect shape, a little dented here and there but the distinct lack of repair needs is what caught her eye when she first saw it. Then the cat, the stupid, large, annoyingly possessive cat sat on it claiming it at it's own. Does she really want it? Maybe she can come back for it later…

Prynn pinches the bridge of her nose. Really? You stop cars from crashing into buses without breaking sweat, catch muggers and dodge bullets almost every other night but you can't deal with a cat? The thing is like way smaller than you anyway Prynn _. But...it's a cat._

Exactly.

Prynn releases her face before moving forward shouldering her backpack more before waving her hands towards the animal, "Shoo," she commands. The cat looks up at her large brown eyes displeased. Prynn purses her lips tightly before waving her hands some more. The cat's back arches fur spiking with it's anger and Prynn swallows the desire to leap backwards.

She hates cats, oh man, she hates cats.

Prynn releases a slow breath and moves forward towards the cat with purpose, fake it till you make it. If she pretends she has a lot of confidence about it, it'll leave right? The black cat growls lowly before scampering off away from her with wide eyes. Prynn exhales softly in relief before leaning down to grab the DVD player. Her shoulder length layered hair falls over her shoulders obscuring her vision slightly her side bangs falling away from her face.

Prynn grabs the DVD player and grabs a large chunk of cat hair from off of the top.  _Uh, ew._  She's never getting a cat when she's older. Ever. Period. Signed and settled.

Prynn releases a heavy breath and tucks the machine under her arm and shoulders her backpack before moving away from they alleyway and back onto the streets.

Drash digger and proud of it-it's not as though she and her aunt are rolling in money anyway. After the death of her uncle, her aunt is struggling financially so Prynn does her best to keep cost low on herself. On the bare necessities. Not even that sometimes. There managing, though so she's grateful for that. A lot could be going worse-though she's not tempting the universe.

Prynn tucks the DVD player close to her chest as she starts to shuffle through the crowd. New York City is a populated for sure and because she's never been anywhere else but the New York she's used to it. According to her aunt and uncle when she was younger her parents would travel all over the countries for their business. Though she, apparently, just got in the way of that. Her parents ditched her at six leaving her on her aunt and uncle's doorstep without a letter or a reasoning on why just a simple, "bye, see ya' never".

They died in a plane crash the next day.

Her aunt and uncle did their best to care for her, though neither one of them have had much time for her. Both had to work to pay for her child needs and though she was close with her uncle, her aunt feels more like a distant sister at college that just returned home. It's hard sometimes.

Prynn tucks the loose hairs from her braid behind her ear and balances the weight of her backpack better across her shoulders. After the spiderbite, it hasn't felt as heavy-or heavy at all, really. It went from feeling like she's dragging around a tracker on her back to a feather. She's not complaining, though, but sometimes the abilities she gained still manage to surprise her. She'll never be a Captain America or Tony Stark but she'll do what she can to help.

After nearly fifteen minutes of shuffling through the city, avoiding running into people and battling through the ground Prynn steps off of the elevator to the third floor of the apartment building as it gives a low  _ding_ behind her.

Prynn digs through her jacket pocket for a moment looking for the keys biting her lip slightly. The people talking around her are still managing to make her head buzz even though her earbuds are stuffed into her ears as far as humanly possible and the sound turned up to beyond what's safely recommended.

Prynn shoves the key into the lock and twists it her backpack sliding down to her forearm before stepping into the small apartment. The house they used to own was bigger but after Ben's death, they had to downsize. She's not complaining, it's her fault anyway.

Prynn takes a few steps into the apartment and her heightened senses immediately trace her aunt to the couch a few paces away and someone else. Weird. Is she dating? That doesn't seem right, though because May is still very much grieving over her late husbands death.

"Hey, Aunt May." Prynn calls as she takes a few steps forward and swings her backpack over her shoulder more. Does she have any interesting information to relay to her aunt? Um...beyond the fact that she's still deathly afraid of cats...no. Well, there was that really expensive car parked outside that couldn't have belonged to anyone in the apartment complex because A: everyone living here is dirt poor and B: see above.

Prynn kicks the door closed with her foot as she dumped her backpack off next to the kitchen table and takes a few more steps forward. "Hey," May calls back from the living room area of the apartment and Prynn sets the DVD player on the messy table next the laundry basket with what she assumes is halted landry.

"How was school?" May asks and Prynn tugs out her earbuds shrugging slightly to herself. The usual. Flash hitting on her, Ned Star Wars-ing out, Michile watching them both creepily and Misty and her giggling gang of gits being jerks. So..nothing different.

"Meh," Prynn says as she takes a few more steps forward pulling her sleeves over her web shooters, "okay," Prynn moves in front of the living room area where the couch is facing the TV. "There's this crazy car parked outside…" Prynn feels her voice die abruptly as her fangirl sense go off.

Her aunt is twisted around long hair falling over her shoulders a smile stretched across her lips. Prynn's attention however, is fixed on the man next to her spinning a piece of date-nut bread casually between his fingers.

_Tony Stark._

_Tony freaking Stark is in her apartment._

What is he doing here?

Why is he here?

...does he know?

Wait, wait, wait. Just-what?

Prynn's arms fold awkwardly over her chest as the web shooters dig into her wrists as she feels her eyes widen beyond normal human capabilities. Tony's gaze sweeps over her in less than a second Prynn sees a glimpse of confusion flash through his eyes so quickly she's sure she imagined it.

"Oh, Ms. Parker." Tony says and gives a lopsided grin of greeting.

Prynn's mouth is dry.

Why can't she think of anything to say. All that's coming to her mind is poetic, "um, um, um,"'s.  _Iron Man_ is  _sitting on her couch._

Focus, Py.

"Um," Prynn stutters,  _amazing, did we not just discuss how pitiful that word is?_ Shush. "..What? What are you doing-" Prynn points at him slightly before tucking her arm in close to her chest again. Pointing is rude. "Hey, I-I-I'm Prynn."

"Tony." His voice sounds so...confident. Prynn can't really get her head to wrap around that. He sounds just like she remembers him from the Stark Expo a few years ago yet at the same time...different. How does he manage to look comfortable here? She feels so awkward and out of place.

This has to be some sort of superficial dream. DId she get hit on the head in gym?

"Wh-wh-what are you doing here?" Prynn scrambles to get her tongue in working order.

May's eyes are wide as she looks over at her and mouths, " _I don't believe it"_ as Tony smirks, "It's about time we met. You've been getting my emails right?"

_Emails?_

_Err..._

No.

Tony winks twice and Prynn struggles to keep her expression from falling apart to " _uh, no, not at all"_ in front of May. Okay, emails...sure. She'll play along for now then see what he wants later.

"Yeah." Prynn agrees, slightly shakily.

"Right." Tony says in agreement.

"Yeah." She agrees firmier. "Regarding the…"

"You didn't even tell me about the grant." May accuses and Prynn lifts her hand up towards her aunt. It's good that Mr. Stark discussed...whatever this white lie is beforehand with his aunt or she would be painting white on black to make this seem believable. It doesn't work.

"About the grant." Prynn finishes.

"The Septemeber foundation," Tony adds, waving his hand slightly towards her.

"Right." Prynn says.

"Yeah." Tony agrees. "Remember when you applied."

Uh...no. Sorry sir, I never did.

"...Yeah." Prynn agrees. May's hands move erratically across the couch top in a severe,  _what?_ Motion.

"I approved." Tony says and turns his body more fully towards her. Prynn's eyebrows lower slightly as she sees a fading black eye over his right one. That looks painful. Prynn's hand her fareshare from hero-ing and school so she's fully aware that it's tender. Why does he have it on his face anyway? "So now we're in business." Tony takes a sip of whatever the drink is from a teacup covered in flowers and sunshine that doesn't seem to fit him very well.

"But you didn't tell me anything. What's up with that? Are you keeping secrets from me now?" May accuses in frustration and Prynn feels her stomach sink.  _You have no idea._

"Well...it's just that I know how much you love surprises so…" Prynn spreads her hands in an arc slightly before tucking them back behind her back and turning her attention to Tony...Stark...in her house.  _This sort of thing doesn't happen to lame, freaky people like her._ "So what is it exactly that I applied for?"

"That's what I'm here to hash out." Tony answers and Prynn nods. Okay. Great. Fantastic.

"Okay, hash..out." She echoes.

Tony, apparently seeking to ease the tension turns his gaze back to May, "You know, it's so hard for me to believe she's someone's aunt." Tony smiles at Prynn who can feel the confusion playing across her face. Isn't he in a relationship near rings with Ms. Potts?

"Yeah, well they come in all shapes and sizes you know." May argues a sheepish smile across her face. She doesn't meet Tony or Prynn's gaze staring at her fingers playing at the top of the couch.

"This walnut dateloaf is exceptional." Tony says and grabs another piece from off the coffee table. Okay.  _Weird_.

"Let me just stop you there." Prynn says and Tony turns back to her.

"Yeah?"

"Does this grant have money involved or whatever...No?" Prynn guesses and Tony's head tilts back and forth slightly, if she wasn't staring at him so hard she would miss it.

"Yeah...it's pretty well funded."

"Wow."

"Look who you're talking too." Tony snarks before turning back to May, "Can I have five minutes with her?"

May nods and turns her gaze to the billionaire, "Sure."

000o000

Tony shuts the door and flips the lock standing there for a moment before moving across the room to the garbage can in the corner and leans over it dropping the date-loaf piece he had in his mouth into it. Prynn sweeps her gaze across her room trying to make sure she doesn't have anything super embarrassing laying around.

Nope. There's a pile of discarded clothes in one corner and hair stuff scattered across her desk but other than that, it's relatively contained to the usual mess. Prynn tries not to be a messy person and they bother everywhere else but the room is an exception.

Tony looks back at her, "As far as walnut date loafs go, that wasn't bad."

Irrelevant.

Prynn is quiet. Tony takes her silence as invitation to study her room and turns to the desk a smirk spilling across his face like he's been told a funny joke. The modifiers aren't the most up-to-date thing but Prynn is quite proud that she found them in as good of shape as they were and managed to fix it.

Now she just wants to find the nearest hole and stuff her head in it in embarrassment.

"Ooh, what do we have here? Retro tech." Tony points at various things lying on the desk, "Thrift store? Salvation army?"

"The, uh, garbage actually." Prynn corrects, her voice quiet.

Tony raises an eyebrow, "You're a dumpster diver?"

 _Meow!_ Withhold the claws, sir! Yes, she is!

Prynn feels her face flame slightly and she covers it with her hands for a moment resisting the urge to moan. After a second, she pulls them back and folds her arms over her chest, "Look, um, I definitely didn't apply for your grant-" Prynn starts to say but Tony lifts up a hand with a phone in it interrupting her.

"Ah-ah! Me first."

Prynn feels herself shrink more, "Okay."

"Quick question of the rhetorical variety." Tony says and presses a button on his phone and a holographic image spills out. Prynn's eyes widen with amazement before she see's what's playing. Spider-Man is swinging from a building tugging away a mugger and Tony looks at her from over the top of the "screen". "That's you, right?"

Yes.

It is.

Though the world knows Spider-Man as well...a man, she's managed to keep her female identity strictly apart from that. She wears fabric over her mouth to muffle her voice and as far as the media and press are concerned Spider-Man is strictly male.

Apparently, not to Tony Stark though.

"Um, no." Prynn says and does her best to pull on a confused face. "What do you mean-?"

"Yeah." Tony says, anyway, and flips the phone again showing a different screen. "Look at you go." Spider-Man swings through a street and grabs a car from smashing into a bus. That hadn't been easy and had taken quick movement and pressure to stop the two vehicles from ramming into each other. She wasn't sore the next day, though she thought she'd be. "Wow, nice catch. For thousand pounds, forty miles an hour, that isn't easy." Tony says and flips the phone again before closing it the images disappear and Prynn feels frustration and panic pulse through her.

Why does he care? Spider-Man isn't doing anything wrong and he's an  _Avenger._ He has larger problems.

"You got mad skills." Tony adds and Prynn tosses her bangs from her face.

"Sir, I hate to be the one to rain on your parade but Spider-Man is... _male."_ Prynn says and her tongue slips, "Hence the "man" part."

Tony snorts, "Yeah. I'd love to agree with that, and admittedly, it threw me off a little." Tony turns away from her, "But only just a little."

Okay time for phase two. "But that's on YouTube right? That's where you found it? Because you know it's fake, all the effects are done on a computer."

"Mhmm." Tony hums.

"It's like that video. What is it?" Prynn says scrambling to come up with one.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Tony calls behind her, "Oh you mean like those UFO's over Phoenix."

"Yes! Exactly!" Prynn agrees then whips her head around towards him as he smacks the trapdoor to the small attic like space above her bedroom and her costume, in all it's glory falls through the air. Prynn leaps forward adrenaline pulsing through her veins and grabs the red-suit tossing it towards her closet on top of a textbook.

"Oh, what have we here?" Tony asks sarcastically behind her.

_Cats._

Prynn turns back to the billionaire and all she can come up with is a simple, "Uh…"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of attempts from me to have a Loki-building-friendship-with-Avengers. This is one of those.
> 
> Characters: Tony, Clint, Steve, Thor, Steve, Natasha, Loki.
> 
> Warnings: Injuries, jerk-y guy.
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

If someone had told Tony that morning, that life would take a swift tumble downwards in a few hours, he would have laughed, slapped them, then shipped them off for fear they'd gone mad. It really wasn't supposed to be any more than a simple mission. All they were doing was guarding weapons for S.H.I.E.L.D., nothing big, nothing to  _worry_ about. Why should they have? They'd done it dozens of times before each catching more and more yawns as time when on because it was such a mundane task that didn't  _matter_ until it did.

Realistically, no one had tried to attack the shipments before anyway, so yeah, they had their guard down. S.H.I.E.L.D. is just a continuous saga of paranoia and unnecessary precautions. They tagged along because they were  _told_ to and Fury would have their heads, arms and feet mounted on his office wall of they didn't. Tony had been so tired of doing the same stupid job again and again that he'd been driving  _with_ the other Avengers throwing around sarcastic comments in his exasperation. His desire to tug at his hair had been so ridiculously strong that if he didn't have a helmet on, he would have been bald by now.

Was it wrong that in that moment, Tony desperately wished for some other world crises to strike them? Something other than watching over trucks like they've been doing every other day for the last three weeks?

The whole point of it was for them to be extra ears and eyes, more protection, more  _observance_ but honestly, someone standing behind the snow the tires were kicking up unable to see a little more than white and dirt would have seen more. There wasn't exactly a focus point on any of them except maybe  _Steve_ but even then, it still wasn't really there.

_They weren't ready._

Jarvis had caught it about three seconds before it actually hit. The pulse beam, designed to kill all tech, amped up to such high intensity that his suit and the car died with a pathetic whirring before he was rendered useless in less than a second. Tony had forced the suit to release before they hit, he had tumbled out a warning on his lips to his team but all there had been was a choked scream than gunfire.

It started in almost every direction and Steve's shield had caught the brunt of it for everyone before the engine was the next victim. The feeling of weightlessness sticks to someone like an annoying sticker trapped at the bottom of a shoe. It's not his first time flying unwantedly and Tony sincerely hopes it's the last. There had just been  _pain_ in every part of his body before distant screaming and shouting then suddenly there had been  _all these guns_ in his face and Tony only blinked stupidly at them.

Though the rising panic and anxiety was rising steadily as memories from Afghanistan pulsed through his head like a child playing with glitter; the one thought he can really remember before he blacked out is the distinct: " _I guess I won't be attending the stupid board meeting after all."_ then the dry frustrated, " _Pepper's going to kill me."_

Whenever they get found. Yep, his fiance will be unhappy and probably slap him. To be honest, he isn't sure who to point the finger at. Beyond maybe at himself. If he'd been in the air, he would have seen the beam before it hit them head on. His team would be safe or at least the brunt of it would have missed them. They wouldn't have been in this situation.

The screaming keeps echoing in his ears.

He had to mentally stabilize himself with multiple mental kicks. It isn't the first time he's been kidnapped in his life. He's the son of a multi-billionaire, people literally saw the cash sign above his head. Afghanistan pokes out like a hot rod by the sole  _pain_ of it.

Tony Stark isn't an idiot. Yeah, he flaunts the label "genius" with pride and smirks but in all honesty, he  _isn't stupid._ He knows when to stop pushing buttons (even if he ignores it sometimes) and when to stop throwing out his arrogance mask. He knows that most people who interact with him think he's a jerk, self absorbed and just plain annoying-admittedly, he's proud of the mask he pulls on. Now, though?

No, there isn't a mask.

Only fear.

Although Tony has had  _more_ than his fair share of headaches in his lifetime, this one takes all the cake. It's pulsing in the back of his head like a small happy drum that a child has gotten a hold of and isn't relenting or holding anything back. It's branding into his forehead with such intensity that Tony can't hold back a groan of pain that escapes his lips, faint as it is. His eye-lids  _ache_ and for the first time in all his twenty-seven years, Tony can honestly say that his eyelashes hurt.

Everywhere around him is cool, almost like he's leaning against ice and his head is hanging against his chest his chin pressed against the upper edge of his arc reactor. The blue glow has a slight warmth to it that is out of place with the coldness of the rest of the room.

Tony peels his eyes open slightly, then blinks sluggishly. The room is dark. This, stupidly, disappoints him. He  _knew_ without a shallow of a doubt that he and his team for sure were  _not_ in Stark Medical despite his desperate, childish hoping that they were.

His wrists hurt, badly, actually and his entire body is stiff, his back is leaning against something and his shoulders feel tight and tense. Tony forces his muscles to relax slightly to lessen the strain before slowly lifting his head, minding his explosive headache, and pulls his eyes open.

The area is about the size of the landing bay on Avengers Tower. There's a row of desks with various mechanical sprinklings spread everywhere, lights are glowing softly against the far wall lighting the gleaming metal to a dull gleam. The walls are an ancient grey and a sinking suspicion slowly starts to gnaw at the back of Tony's mind.

Despite the lights, everything looks suspiciously like the inside of a medieval prison. There aren't any torture devices, or really anything to loudly proclaim it, but Tony's seen enough of them from his mother's odd fascination with it and the various vacations they would take there when he was a child. Across from him is a shadowed corner where the lights don't reach but a low red light is blinking every other second or so. Tony notes it mentally, but does nothing else on it. Tony turns his head slowly, wincing, as his headache flares in protest and spots the rest of his team.

Natasha is closest to him and looks utterly terrible. Tony can't remember much of the battles but he does remember Nat's scream and Clint shouting her name. His suit was useless and Tony was trying to find a weapon but-he shakes himself from the memories and bites his lip staring at her for another moment.

Her hair is a tousled mess that will likely take at least a week to untangle properly she has several bruises on her face from what he can see in the poor lighting and a lazily wrapped mid-section that starting to stain. Tony's lips curl in disgust at the sight but her leg looks the worst. Her calf is deformed and looks painful. Her head is rolled to the left, unconscious as her arms, supported over her head by shackles rest lazily.

Thor is beside her and looks a little worse for wear as well, his blond hair is a mess (does any of their hair look  _nice?)_ and he's sporting several cuts and bruises along his neck and upper arms. The thing that stands out the most about him to Tony though, is a thick black collar strapped around his neck, curiosity placed under his wild locks. His arms are shackled above his head as well.

He can't see Steve, Clint, or Bruce very well from the awkward angle that he's sitting at but he can see there arms placed above their heads and that Clint and Steve are awake. Steve's head is tilted back against the wall where he's staring up at the ceiling, looking utterly fascinated and Clint's feet are tapping against each other like a bored child. Tony licks his dry lips and scans around the room again looking for an exit. He has little doubt that Natasha or Clint won't be able to slip out of their shackles when given enough drive but Steve or Thor should be able to break there's.

All they really need is an exit and someone to carry Natasha. Was she the  _only_ person injured? No, that doesn't seem right. Am  _I_ injured? Tony mentally scans himself. Arms: check, legs: check. Beyond a headache that could knock a man off his feet? He's good. Strange, he really feels like the blast should have done more, he didn't have any armor...or really anything. Tony shifts slightly and gives a low hiss through his teeth.

Yeah, alright, the back is  _not_  totally injury free. He was likely grazed with a few bullets. Tony presses his lips together firmly and presses his head back against the wall trying to  _push_ the headache out.

"Tony?" Steve's voice cuts through the air shattering the silence that's been playing for the last few minutes he's been awake. Tony doesn't open his eyes but leans his head subconsciously towards where he knows Steve is towards the end of their long line.

"Yeah, Cap?" Tony answers and presses his teeth together again. Cats, this headache is going to be the death of him. Maybe he can sleep it off, that would be nice-oh gosh, he just want's it to go away so he can  _think_ normally again. He would take motrin!

"Are you injured?" Steve asks and Tony shakes his head, though he's aware the team leader can't see it.

"No," Tony answers halfheartedly, daring his voice to be a little louder in hopes of waking his other teammates. Natasha's state is admittedly worrying him slightly and Thor's head wound isn't looking to hot either. "You?"

Steve is quiet for a moment, "I took a few hits," he admits. Ah, it must be bad then, Steve, like the rest of them believes firmly in the game of "how long can I keep it hidden before anyone notices or I pass out?". It's a great game that they're all champions at. So Tony has high doubts that "a few" is the right word.

Sure enough, Clint snorts, "A few?" He repeats, his voice sounds raspy, "You look like a mummy."

"I don't." Steve defends and Tony internally sighs and rolls his eyes regretting his decision immediately but ignores the following pain and leans forward slightly to see if he can get a glimpse of his teammates. From the nearly straight wall, it's hard, but he catches a glimpse of Clint's face through the dark tangles of Thor's hair.

His face is bruised, but he looks relatively okay. Some of the worry that building in his stomach lessens. Bruce lets out a soft groan and Tony turns his head towards the scientist ignoring, to the best of his ability, the ache at the back of his skull. Bruce mumbles a few sentences under his breath in a hushed whisper and Tony leans forward straining the shackles as far as they'll go to see him.

"Bruce?" Steve asks and the scientist gives a low moan in reply.

"Ow." He groans a moment later.

Bruce shakes his head several times and blinks, squinting at their surroundings. "I-uh, take it that we didn't win?"

"Yeah, no, not really." Tony supplies helpfully. They very much so  _didn't_ win the fight. Hulk had emerged from what Tony can pull from his hazy memories, but he doesn't remember what happened after that.

A loud bang rings from behind the door Tony spotted earlier next to the desks and all of them whip their heads towards it as Natasha gives a low groan and Thor twitches. The door is ripped open and light floods into the room. Tony winces and his hands move to cover his eyes but they don't make it very far as the chain pulls tight with a  _clank_ and the metal digs into his wrists.

A man strides forward into the room closely followed by at least six others. His expensive suit and evenly cropped hair auras a man of importance. His hands are clasped behind his back as he enters, the door slamming shut behind him, taking the painful light and casting shadows across the room again. Tony lifts his head a little higher and stares the man down clenching his jaw, slightly to the left.

The man gives a wide smile with perfectly white teeth and raises his hands, "Welcome Avengers," he greets, revealing a faint Scottish accent. Ah, so he  _is_ aware who he's captured then. Not that's it's hard to miss, Tony isn't aware of another team with their oddities on it.

"Ah, buddy, cut down on the tooth-shine, okay? You're blinding me." Tony says tiredly and leans his head back, closing his eyes and feels the icy glare sent his way. He allows himself a small satisfied smirk and wrenches his eyes open in surprise and pain as a hand smacks against his face and he tumbles to the right accidently smacking his ribs against Natasha's elbow. His head whips to the side and he blinks several times before turning to look at the rich-leader-man-boss-honco-dude. He didn't even  _hear_ him move across the ground.

Okay, then.

Natasha's eyes rip open as her elbow impales his ribs and her fiery grey eyes look up at the man and Tony can see her grasping a hold of the situation despite the tightness around her eyes from pain.

"Please hold your tongue or we'll have to remove it." The man says and gives Tony another picture-worthy smile before leaning down next to Natasha. She tosses her dirty hair from her face and the man raises an eyebrow. "You're a lot shorter in person."

The man rises and walks the length of his captives before coming at a halt in the middle again, tilting his head slightly. "You should thank me, you're about to become apart of something  _beautiful."_ He says the words with ease but adds a slight pressure at the last one. Tony narrows his eyes but bites his tongue.

"Like what?" Clint demands and the man's lip quirk upwards slightly.

"I'm glad you asked. I am Dayt Hoven, and if you value your lives or the lives of your comrades you'll do exactly as I say." Dayt says and Tony raises an eyebrow. On intimidation levels, he  _has_ seen better, but it's not bad.

"What do you plan on doing to us?" Steve asks. His tone is in his Captain America mode, where he's firm and not answering usually results in the eyebrows of disappointment.

"My dear Captain," Dayt says softly, "I intend to  _keep_ you. You'll make my company move faster, more efficiently, and, well, who will deny me when  _I_ hold the Avengers? The world will be at my mercy, and you, you will sit here and watch as I burn it."

"Yeah-no." Clint says and gives a small laugh, "You really think you can keep us here?"

"Of course. Any disobedience will be punished; I have a mission for each of you and if you poke a finger where it isn't wanted, I'll cut it off. But first, I can't have you bleeding out on my floor, Harold," Dayt says and a man lifts his head, "get the battery." He commands and Tony watches idly as Harold steps into the heavier shadowed part of the room and kicks something. A soft hiss echoes through the air and Thor twitches again.

"Get up," Harold says. His voice is heavy and deep. When whatever the battery is doesn't respond, Harold leans forward and grabs it.

"He will be your caretaker and teach you obedience. I'll be back tomorrow to take you to your purposes. It's just fate that brought us together, such perfect timing-I can't really be blamed, can I? The fates  _wanted_ us together." Dayt says and gives a soft sigh of contentment before Harold tosses the battery forward and Tony feels all color drains from his face as it- _he_ lands in a crumpled heap near he and Natasha's feet. Dayt turns on his heel and walks from the room his men following behind them the door clicking shut with a slam and a lock grinding into place. The pounding ache decides, at this  _timely_ moment to over power everything and Tony's breath hitches painfully before he's dragged into the world of unconsciousness, unwilling.

000o000

The next time Tony awakens, he's headache is gone, there's a weird buzzing noise ringing through the air and something wet touching his face. He flinches as the...thing touches his face again and he rips his gaze away from the badly lighten room pulling it forward. His jaw drops slightly, pain exploding through his nerves as he shoves back as much as possible from the cloth and the person in front of him.

_No flipping way._

_He's supposed to on Asgard, receiving punishment._

Why is he here?

He hired the men to attack him, didn't he?

Loki's look of slight concern drops with his frustration and he grabs Tony's chin, "Remain still." He commands quietly. His voice sounds different than Tony remembers, far less confident, more...silent, broken. The long black hair is falling over his shoulders in loose curls the exhaustion, even in the dark lighting shows across Loki's face easily. The bags under his eyes look like real bruises and he looks ridiculously thin.

The only reason Tony doesn't struggle further or fight is because, A: everything hurts, B: Loki's hand is seriously  _cold._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Ah...so snippet of a story that never went anywhere.
> 
> Characters: Natasha and Steve
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Written: 2018 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

"I feel stupid." Steve says, his tone is slightly irritable yet has a pathetic hopeless edge that makes him want to grind his jaw together in frustration. He stares at the full length mirror in front of him with strong distaste and presses his lips together to withhold further comments. He knows they're coming eventually and he can already think of quite a few but as of right now he just wants to bury his head in a paper bag for a few days.

Natasha steps in front of him from her previous position behind him brushing down the wild flying hairs of his black wig and straightens the red tie he's wearing. "You look fine." She assures a moment later and brushes the long bangs in front of his face. He's never been good at acting-spying, whatever Tasha and Clint have decided to call it this time but the mission is critical and Natasha isn't a guy, Thor can't act to save his life, Bruce is to short and Clint didn't have the right build. Tony's going as well  _Tony_ and despite how much Steve is protesting he knows how important this dinner party is.

What remains of S.H.I.E.L.D. contacted them with evidence they'd found on a weapons dealer selling with the guise dinner party. Apparently something to do with Chitauri tech mixed with S.I.'s older stuff. Tony had told the agents they'd deal with it before shoving his way onto the guest list. " _I'm the distraction,"_ He'd said, " _they all look my way as Jeorge Killo buys weapons from the boss."_

And of course, Steve gets to be Jeorge. Excellent. All he can think of is a few months ago when he and Natasha were on the run and he was miserable at it. He's not meant to be a spy. Period. At all, none, nope, zip, nada. They apprehended the man last night, well, Natasha and Thor did (Steve's not sure how and doesn't want details right now).

"Clint's better at this stuff." Steve protests weakly.

"And your shadow." Natasha points out. In the vents, they'd all agreed on it. Natasha is going as Jeorge's wife, Lacy, and Bruce and Thor are going to just be guests. More distractions. Not everyone there is buying the weapons a mere handful but preventing the civilians from going would be an obvious "hey, we found out about your super secret law breaking habits" and the weapons dealer would cut it. Ian Link if there sources were right.

Natasha turns so she's facing the mirror and shoves a bobby-pin back into her hairstyle. She's been growing it out recently and has it pulled up into a curled bun that is somehow elegant yet dangerous. Her dress is a long deep red that gathers at her feet and the sleeves are long and it extends up to a collar. Natasha has plenty of weapons on her person but Steve feels oddly naked without his shield. He has a gun, but no intentions of using it.

Natasha runs a finger under her eye for a moment before turning back to him. "We're good. Are you ready?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Deleted scene from my one-shot "Discolored" originally, it was from both Hela and Loki's POV, and this was a small fraction of what was Loki's POV.
> 
> Characters: Loki
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Written: 2018 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

There was only stillness. The endless, infrangible  _stillness._  Always present, unrelenting, it wouldn't let him  _go._ There was no darkness, but the light swallowed him all the same. There was nothing he could do to stop it-he tried, oh he  _tried,_ but nothing would stop it from coming back, from it's needy fingers clawing around his throat and dragging him under again.

Nothing stopped it, the stillness from swallowing him. He wanted  _out_ but was trapped, ( _sinking, helpless, GET ME OUT!)_ only broken by his ragged gasps and attempts for breath that are long since stale in his chest.

At one point, he remembers trying to break it. Doing anything to break the fragile stillness before it swallowed him, again, again and  _again._ His voice gave out eventually, his rage broke, the hopeless swallowed him and he collapsed, among the broken glass and furniture. (Sleep is easier, sleep does not  _hurt_ so much. It does not ache.) Now he does not fight it. He hasn't for a long time.

His eyes are raw and ache at every available moment from the light, the  _never ending light_ but the pulse no longer feels as strong, not as painful.

_What, what, what, what-?_

Where did the pulse go?

Has his vision finally started to go out? He does not hope for that, but life has a cruel sense of irony and he would not be surprised.

He attempts to pull his eyelids apart to  _see_ to understand  _why,_ but they refuse to seperate. Panic grasps at him, wrapping around his throat and squeezing, he cannot lose his sight.

Perhaps this is a new punishment.

No, he won't let it be,  _it can't be._

He lifts his arm, the limb is exhausted and drags it towards his face. He grabs the eyelid and rips it open, the other follows, as if embarrassed  _not_ to and he winces at the light, but it is not as intense. It does not  _burn._

The color is wrong.

There is only  _white,_ and  _red,_ and wood. This is...not that. Blue, a voice supplies in his head. Yes, blue, why is it blue? Does it matter? He's not  _there._ His lips pressed together and he drops his hand across his chest and squeezes his eyes shut. He is not  _there._ Safe. Fine. Alive. He can feel exhaustion grabbing at him again.

No!

He doesn't want to sleep!

He wants to understand why-

Exhaustion is biting.

His breath heaves and uncoinsouls claims at him once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Deleted scene from Styigan, it really didn't fit at all, so I had to axe it.
> 
> SPOILERS FOR SHERLOCK S1.
> 
> Characters: Natasha, Clint, Tony, Loki
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Written: 2018 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

"Have you ever had pizza before?" Tony asks and Loki's head whips towards him, black hair smacking against his face.

"No." He answers, and Tony scoffs.

"You've been to Earth how many times and never participated in one of our greatest accomplishments?" Tony demands rhetorically before slapping a hand over his heart, "The Earthling in me cries out for you, we must fix this."

"I've survived this long-" Loki starts, clearly not going for Tony's subtle way of stuffing food down his skinny throat.

"Nope." Tony argues, "This is non negotiable, Reindeer Games." He says and grabs Loki's upper arm pulling him forward, Loki staggers a step, but regains his balance and Tony can feel his general displeasure being directed at the back of his head.

Well, suck it up buttercup.

Tony pulls him into the elevator and glances towards Jarvis's camera, he knows he doesn't have to make contact with Jarvis to get his attention, but Tony does it anyway. "Jarvis, order pizza."

"Your usual, Sir?" Jarvis inquires, and Tony glances at Loki.

"Yeah. Are Natasha, Clint and Bruce still in the communal room?" He asks.

"Indeed, Sir." Jarvis says, "They are talking."

Good. Tony has no desire to force-feed the second Asgardian prince by himself and would like to have back up for  _when_ not if, things go south. They should do something else rather than just eat the food because Tony  _hates_ being watched while he eats and he doesn't think Loki will appreciate all of them staring at him. Maybe a movie?

A  _movie?_

Honestly.

Now.

With Loki?

That just seems... _wrong._

Loki wouldn't even be able to  _see_ it, but he could  _hear_ it and he's smart, he could probably piece together what's going on. If not, well, Tony does sarcastic commentary, it drives Pepper crazy. Movies are excellent distractions for eating, but not  _realizing_ that you're eating.

The elevator doors open and Tony blinks in surprise. He forgot he was in an elevator.

"There's nothing infront of us," Tony says to Loki, "It's about twenty feet to the counter." He adds before striding forward and slamming his palms down on the top. Any remains of what was going to be some sort of fried rice is cleaned and the knife's, Tony notes, are missing.

Probably a good move.

"I ordered pizza and were watching a movie." He declares. The small conversation that they'd been having stops and all three heads turn to look at him, Bruce's eyebrow lifted slightly.

"What?"

"We're eating pizza and watching a movie," He repeats as Loki stops about five feet from him, hand resting on the edge of the counter as if to reassure himself where it is. Clint's eyebrows lift in slight amusement at the T-shirt, obviously having gotten the space pun that Tony just realized is present.

NASA studies space and looks for aliens.

Well, okay, yeah, not intentional.

"Is this mandatory?" Clint asks, his tone slightly flat.

Tony shakes his head, "Yep," he answers, with far more cheer than he actually feels, "Loki hasn't had pizza before and I find this offensive, any movies in particular anyone wants to watch? Preferably not a Disney Princess."

He has nothing against Disney Studios, but after Pepper forced him to watch  _Tangled_ with all the hair and inaccuracies to physics and  _lots of singing_ he's been turned down by their animated ones. Save  _Atlantis: The Lost Empire,_ but that's only because of the  _lack_ of singing replaced with explosions. Explosions are fun, unless they're in the face.

"Well darn," Natasha says her voice deadpan, "there goes all my plans."

Clint whacks her arm, "You've never  _seen_ a Disney Princess movie."

Natasha raises a challenging eyebrow, "I have."

Clint's eyes dawn with realization and Loki makes a slight snorting noise to his left. Tony stares at them, confused before sharing a look with Bruce. Tony looks at Loki, how does  _he_ get what was implied there? He's not even native to this planet.

Unless...

Tony frowns, "Have you," he says, caustionly, to Loki, disbelief evident in his voice. "seen Disney Princesses?"

"No," Loki says, his lip twitching on a smirk, "but I know of them."

Oh. That's delightful. "Erm, okay, moving on," Tony says, not  _really_  wanting to get into a debate about Ariel, Belle, or the others (whose names he didn't really process and deleted from his memory) "anyone up for BBC's  _Sherlock?"_

Actually, for a blind person, that probably would be a frustrating show. More of the important details are shown on the screen rather than spoken, but Loki perks up, actually looking anything other than an unhappy lanky mass. "Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes? I've read those." He says.

Tony gives him a confused face and Bruce's eyebrows raise, "You  _have?"_

"I read everything in Asgard's library," Loki says, "Midgard had others...Thor gave me a copy."

Oh.

Their earlier screaming match flashes through Tony's mind and he grimaces slightly before shrugging, "Okay,  _Sherlock_ it is then, but not a Scandal in Bulgaria." Tony hates the episode with something close to a burning passion.

Clint and Natasha gravitate towards the couch in front of the large TV screen and Loki trails after them, feeling around the chairs for a moment before taking a seat on the other couch that is not currently preoccupied by people. Bruce sits on the Natasha and Clint's and Tony takes the remaining seat, leaving Loki on his own.

He pulls up his phone, the device connecting via, Jarvis where season 1 is already loaded, likely also by his AI.  _Thank you, J._

He flicks the play button and promplty spends the next seventeen minutes as they wait for the order to arrive watching everyone else's reactions. Loki's face grows more blank as time passes, likely as his frustration grows from lack of sight and he pulls his feet up, burying his head into his knees. When Jarvis says, " _The order has arrived."_ Tony all but leaps from the couch in a volunteer to get it.

"Don't pause!" He calls behind him and quickly escapes into the hall to get to the elevator and grab the take out releasing a breath of slight relief. After paying the very much awed delivery man who promised to never wash his hand in his amazement again as Tony briefly touched it to take the boxes, he returns to the elevator.

He steps into the communal room, boxes in hand happily and plops them into the coffee table in between the two couches, declaring, "Foods here!"

Clint leans forward and flicks the first box open, pulling out a piece and biting into it happily. Natasha and Bruce pick through the boxes before carefully selecting a piece and Tony turns to Loki who still has his head buried in his knees.

If he thinks he's going to get away without eating anything, Tony is probably going to slap him. "Hey, Lokes," He says, the nickname slipping out before he can stop it, "food, remember?"

Loki lifts his head up to give a slight glare, most likely at the nickname and proclaims, "I am not hungry."

Clint snorts, "Yeah right." He argues, "Eat it or I will  _make_ you." He threatens. Clint sounds serious and Loki's expression darkens slightly. He jerks his head slightly in the direction of the TV.

"Have you seen this before, Barton?" He inquires, almost in a friendly tone.

Clint glances at Natasha for a second before shaking his head, "Not this episode."

"Oh, good," Loki says and smiles slightly, "her murderer was her escort, the ah, 'cab driver' I think it's called here."

Clint's expression flickers with annoyance and before war and murder can break out Tony grabs a piece of pizza and stuffs it into Loki's hand. The Asgardian flinches backwards at it and almost drops it. "Just eat that and we'll leave you alone." Tony promises.

Until tomorrow.

Loki's expression flickers with something unreadable for a moment and Tony forces himself to look away as to  _not_ stare, which was the purpose of the movie/episode. When he looks back about ten minutes later, the piece is gone and Loki is laying on his side, hands around his stomach, feet curled inwards. He looks like a pathetic sadness ball on the couch.

The episode ends and Tony looks at Loki for a long moment, his breaths are even and deep, indicating sleep and his limbs are lax. He looks strangely peaceful. There isn't any indication of what they learned today, of what happened.

Clint frowns, but grabs one of the blankets hanging over the edge of the couch and drapes it over Loki's bony frame. He doesn't straighten it out like a mother would with her child, practically dumps it on him with little more care than a toss, but it speaks volumes.

Clint is disgusted with what Loki did to him, that much is obvious, but after learning about what happened...it changed things. This is a sign of forgiveness for what happened, that, though he's angry, it doesn't mean he hates him.

It is, like the rest of them have come to terms with, acceptance.


	9. A Whisper Told Me "Live"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: For some time I was pretty obsessed with Pietro fix-it fics (frankly I still am), but I couldn't really get this go anyway. Haha. Do what you will.
> 
> Characters: Wanda, Pietro, Tony, Clint, Steve, Thor, Steve, Natasha.
> 
> Warnings: Some gore, some violence
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

A Whisper Told Me "Live":

Pietro gasps, his lungs choking for air that isn't  _coming_ no matter how hard he tries. Everything is blurry and spinning like some sort of horrible underwater rollercoaster (not that he's ever been on one) but he imagines it would be like this. His chest is tight, almost like when his father would wrap him a bear hug when he was younger and squeeze him until he was choking with laughter but this is much, much worse. His limbs are shaky, his ears ringing and the pain digging into his skin only causing his senses to go haywire  _more._

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

_It's not coming._

He's going to die.

He  _is_  dying.

This was not how today was supposed to go. They were just supposed to-oh, cats,  _they._

_Wanda!_

He can feel her suddenly, now that he's focusing, her pain echoing through him worse than any of the blasts. She's screaming, she's in pain and  _he can do nothing._ He has to get to her, he has to protect his little sister.

His eyes slowly rotate upwards to Clint's face. The man's eyes are wide with shock and the kid he's holding is clutched close to his chest in what almost painful. He'll take care of Wanda, he has to because he can't do it anymore.  _I'm sorry!_

His eyes search over Clint's face for a moment every millisecond feeling like hours. This is the last time he'll see him. Clint. When he's alive. He memorizes it and his eyes raise slightly the speed slowed with his racing heart as he sees a glint of metal sparkle against the light before it smashes against his forehead.

His head explodes with pain, light and dark somehow merging through his sight as his limbs give into the agony. Pietro collapses forward falling against the dirt his eyes still open staring blankly forward. His chest is still heaving for breath though he knows that none is coming. His head pulses with every heartbeat but he can't get his limbs to work.

He's dying.

This time it's real.

Oh, man, what was the last thing he said to Wanda? He can't remember. Everything is slipping away from him like sand through his fingertips. Pietro struggles to keep any remaining grains in his hands.  _Breathe, breathe, breathe._

Wanda is still screaming.

"-d!"

A hand presses against his shoulder and Pietro convulses, gasping again for the breath that isn't entering. He's starting to panic, he  _need's to breathe._ But he  _can't._ What do you do if you can't breathe? Cry? Scream? Plant a garden?

The pain isn't ending.

"-ro!"

The voices sound like they're being played through a record player followed by a explosion. Fuzzy.

Feeling in his limbs is gone but he's suddenly on his back. He doesn't remember rolling over. Why'd he move? Should he move? He's tired, he's exhausted and he want's to  _sleep._ That will help his head, right? The cure for headaches is always sleep.

A man's face appears in his vision, bleary, yet somehow still panicked. He knows this man. He can't remember from where or why though only that he  _does._ Is that bad? Should he know him? Why can't he  _remember?_

Another man's face appears into his vision and he looks like he's going to start hyperventilating. Pietro wants to tug at his hair and just keep  _pulling._ He doesn't understand anything. He wants it to stop, can someone make it stop.  _Please!_ He'll do anything,  _anything._ He wants it to go away.

"-ol...n!" A voice tells him.

Ol n? What is he supposed to do with that? He doesn't want to think, he just want's to  _sleep._ Can they stop talking so he can rest? He needs  _sleep_ and they aren't letting him do it. Can he cry? He wants to cry in frustration.

His breaths are getting shorter and his brain is getting foggier. How does he get rid of it? It's preventing him from sleep. Maybe he can ask it? No, that doesn't seem right.

Hand's are under his shoulder's suddenly and his knees and he's ripped away from the ground. Wait, stop! He doesn't want to move! He can't! It hurts to much, Pietro opens his mouth to try and explain this to the person but all that comes out is a strangled scream.

"I...k...w...ts...rry." The person says again. The other man is watching from close by, Pietro spots him from the side of his vision. The person next to him is  _warm,_ and Pietro suddenly realizes how cold he is. Has he ever been warm? He can't remember anything but pain and the rapidly growing cold. It's like his memories are blocked from him, preventing anything from helping him.

Fear wraps around him.

He doesn't want to die, but he doesn't want to be like this forever.

Something needs him, though, and he can't remember what it is. Hopefully it'll be okay without him.

He's moving at a faster pace, now, and it's making him uncomfortable. He's rocking to much. The arms around him are tight and oddly comforting, he doesn't know who it is though so maybe he should be afraid. He's  _dying_ though.

Why can't he fall asleep? Why is he still awake. It can't be possible to be in this much pain and still be alive or awake. He needs  _rest,_ and he needs it  _now._

He lets out a small whimper as he rocks rather aggressively suddenly and he wishes he would  _stop._ Everything hurts to much to be moving like this. It's tingling, and it's cold. Everything is so, so cold, except the arms, and the person. He leans in subconsciously towards the warmth, a shiver wracking through the numbing pain.

It's going away!

But that can't be good. Why though? He can't remember or decide. He just wants it  _over._

The hands release him and suddenly he's lying on a hard surface. He lets out a small whine of protest as the warmth goes away. Now everything is cold. There isn't any warmth at the end of the tunnel. Just black, dark, and a faint scream ringing through his head.

New pain rocks through him and he smacks the person's hand away. Don't touch! Why are they trying to poke him? Are they trying to make his hurt worse? Is that possible? Can it just  _end._ He wants it over but everyone keeps making it worse. Just  _be quiet!_

. _..please_.

The voice is speaking to him again, the tone soft. He focuses on that because it sounds warm. And he's so, so  _cold._ Pain rocks through him again and he cries out, it burns, it stings, it  _doesn't stop._ He smacks it away again. He wants it  _gone, so stop touching._

A hand runs through his hair, suddenly, and he would have jumped but his limbs aren't responding to anything he tells them to do. It's just all so  _heavy._ A different voice speaks, he recognizes it, comfort races through him though he can't remember  _why,_ but because this voice is here, everything will be alright. The hand is gentle as it strokes through his hair and he focuses on it, barely registering when a different person gabs at him again.

It hurts but it's not as important as the person's hand and their voice, talking in what's an attempted soothe but he can still hear the tears. A sudden desire to comfort runs through him, though he doesn't understand and he attempts to lift his hand up to run it through  _their_ hair because the feeling is so peaceful but his limbs remain at his side. It's to heavy. He can't offer the comfort.

The thought saddens him.

The hand is comforting and he slowly closes his eyes all the way. The sudden darkness makes him panic, though and he wants to rip his eyes open again so he can see the light but they  _aren't opening._ Why? Are they broken. Can eyelids break? His are.

The stroking isn't stopping but neither is the prodding. Will they  _stop touching it!_ It hurts! They aren't making it any better. Stop, stop, stop!

' _Pietro.'_

Who's that?

 _What_ was that?

Oh no, he's going insane because there is  _someone inside his brain!_

' _Pietro.'_

He  _knows_ they're there! They don't have to say the name. The name? Isn't it  _his_ name? Pietro. Yeah, that sounds right. Pietro. The voice is familiar. He knows it, right? No. Yes? He's too tired to figure this out now, he'll sleep now  _then_ come back to it. Yeah…

' _Pietro, please stop struggling. You need to remain still so they can heal you.'_

Heal?

Is he wounded?

He's moving?

He can't feel his limbs, maybe he is. That would explain his aching lungs, his chest, his  _everything._ Nothing is working right, anymore. His body isn't responsive. Oh no, that's bad, this is really bad. His choked breathing picks up pace and he can suddenly feel  _everything_ again.

Every gasp is liquid fire running through his veins. His shoulders are aching, his chest is burning. But his head is the worst. If the headache wasn't pulsing between his eyelids, he might be okay but it feels like his brain is trying to explode. Why can't he just fall unconscious! Is there no mercy!?

' _Pietro, calm down. You'll be alright.'_

No, he won't!

He's dying.

Oh, man,  _he is dying._

Pietro rips his eyes open again his heavy lids finally releasing their lock. His vision is blurred beyond recognition but he can see the sky above him. The clouds are swirling, the blue bright and boring into his brain. His chest is heaving, his lungs burning but Pietro can see Clint leaning over him.

He jerks his hand up and wraps his burning muscle around the archer's shirt. Clint's attention is on him and he's speaking but Pietro doesn't understand what he's saying. The hand running through his hair stopped, but Pietro doesn't care. His focus is on one thing and one thing only.

Wanda.

Someone has to make sure Wanda is okay after this, someone has to watch out for her.

Clint is still talking rapidly but Pietro is trying to grasp enough energy in his throat to work past the scream to get words out.  _Someone has to watch his little sister._ The words don't make any sense but he doesn't release his grip on Clint.

"W-wan…" he coughs and tears slip from his eyes at the pain. His chest is on fire. He's dying, he can feel everything shutting down. His heart is beating sluggishly in his ribcage. "Y-you...wath...her…" His voice is slurring. Clint has to understand. He will.

Someone is sobbing on his left, but Pietro can't pull his gaze away from Clint on his right. He has to make sure that the man agrees to watch his sister. Clint is still talking but his ears aren't working and Clint gives a nod. Good. Wanda will be safe under his watch-and he will. Wanda is his little sister, even if by twelve minutes.

Pietro can rest now, she'll be safe.

She needs to be safe.

Fear wraps around him, suddenly. Will dying hurt? He's already dying, and it hurts to the question is answered. He's so,  _so,_ tired and cold. A shiver wracks through is broken body and exhaustion takes over. Blackness is clinging to the edge of his consciousness.

His hand slips from Clint's shirt and hits the ground by his side, the feeling is funny but he doesn't care anymore.

Wanda is safe.

Clint is safe.

Ultron will be stopped.

His heart beats sluggishly in his ears.

Pietro closes his eyes-

_Thump….thump…._

-and lets the darkness claim him.

000o000

At the boom of artillery, Clint's whole body tenses and he turns himself to shield the child in his arms. In a way, it reminds him horribly of Cooper when he was frightened by a bad dream yet it's not his actual son. He still needs to protect the kid though, because that's his job. Just as he told Wanda a little less than two hours ago. His whole upper body is rigid and the kid pressed tightly against his chest. He waits.

He won't get that sunroom done, after all. Or the dining room-turned office. Hopefully Laura can convince Steve to help with the project. That part of the house is a mess.

Clint waits.

And waits.

A sharp  _shing_ whips through the air and Clint jerks his head upwards as a patriotic shield rushes through the air about a dozen or so feet away. A rush of blue-light streams come to a halt and a body rocks as it takes the impact of the attack.

The rays don't hit the shield nor Clint or the shaking boy.

The rays hit Pietro.

Oh, gosh,  _no!_

Pietro's wide grey eyes meet his and Clint's arms loosen around the child his haunted expression locked onto the seventeen year old in front of him. Seventeen. He's seventeen and...oh no, no, no. This can't be real. When is he going to wake up? How many pinches till he can reverse the time table?  _This can't be real._

Pietro's body shakes as it gasps for breath that isn't coming and Clint has less than a second to mentally memorize the agonized expression before Steve's terribly timed shield smacks against Pietro's head.

Pietro collapses promptly the shield clattering a few feet away from the Maximoff twin. Clint stills for a moment his eyes locked onto the shield. Pietro...

"Great aim," Clint let's out in an angered whisper. He tightens his grip on the child before rising to his suddenly jell-o like feet and runs to the horribly too still body. No. Please don't be dead.

"Kid!" Clint shouts his voice rising in his panic. Falling to his knee, holding the rescued child in his left arm, and grasps the teen's shoulder jerking his hand back almost as quickly. Pietro's body convulses forward and he gasps for breath.

"Pietro!"

Pietro doesn't answer, his eyes remaining open blankly and despite Clint's near death grip on his arm, the older Maximoff twin doesn't twitch a finger. With a quick glance, Clint's stomach clenches, the wounds are terrible. He's not going to make it.

"Hold on!" Clint begs to Pietro's unresponsive body. The older twin's eyes are open though, starting forward blankly.

Footsteps pound across the ground akin to someone being chased by a wild herd of rhinos and Clint jerks his head upwards as Steve comes to a skidding halt from his sprint. The older man's eyebrows shoot upward so high Clint fears for a moment they'll launch of his face.

"He took the bullets," Steve breathes.

_Ultron touched him._

"Obviously." Clint hisses through his tightly clenched teeth. Steve looks at his shield lying a few feet away and Clint looks away from his leader's face. They might be able to get Pietro to help but if he has brain damage because the captain can't aim right then Clint is going after him with solely a curling iron and a stool leg.

Clint shoves the kid in his arms into Steve's two, then carefully rolls Pietro over. The teen's limbs move limply, like spaghetti noodles unsure what to do with themselves. Wanda. Where is Wanda? Is she still at the core? He needs to find Pietro's sister.

Pietro's quiet form looks up at him, emotionless and Clint slides his arms underneath Pietro's knees and his shoulders trying his best to avoid the injuries. A tangled scream slips out of the teen's throat and Clint pauses the tight clenching in his chest growing worse.

"I know it hurts, I'm sorry." He assures before pulling Pietro towards him. Pietro curls in towards him, even if subconsciously before going still, again.

It's not a body. Clint repeats the mantra over and over in his head.

_It's not a body._

"Get him to ship." Steve commands, re-positioning the child in his care that's beginning to whine. Clint clenches the Maximoff to his chest like precious cargo, his stupor lasting only a moment longer before the Barton takes off in a sprint towards the last remaining ship.

000o000

Clint isn't sure if he should be angry, upset, or on a murder vengeance rage.

Right now, he's angry.

Pietro didn't have to be so stupid. Why did he do it?  _Why?_ Clint needs to know and judging from how the teen's vitals held out on their flight from the remains of Sokovia to Avengers Tower, he isn't going to get the chance to ask him.

His feet are burning a pattern into the ground outside the surgery room but he couldn't care less. Tony can buy new floor, but not a person. Pietro's been in surgery for over four hours now and he isn't the only one who's..angsty.

Steve is pacing too, along the other length of the wall, Tony is sitting on one of the chairs phone in hand as he taps away at something (Cint is sixty two percent sure he's texting Pepper), Thor is sitting in a chair next to Tony looking bone-tired and worn out. The Asgardian's leg suffered from the fall. Nothing serious but his standards but a dislocated and sprained ankle is still a injury.

Tony's chest is a mess of bruises and his back isn't much better. The nurse had to wrap him in the chair when the Stark refused to move from the spot threatening the nurse with a taser. Wanda is standing near the far corner her eyes moist and hands folded over her chest tightly. Natasha is standing next to her, face blank and stance calm but Clint knows her well enough to know that the woman is a raging storm buried beneath a calm sea.

Bruce, with some persuasion came back to help with the surgery and is currently in the room with Pietro that none of the surgeons have left over the last few hours. Clint's frustration is building.

Why do they still have no answers? Pietro didn't die and their trying to figure out a way to tell them and hide the body, right? No, Bruce wouldn't let them do that...right?

Clint begins to trek the ground faster, almost as if he's been tasked with sanding the ground with solely his boots. He can feel Tony's gaze resting on him watching him idly move from one end of the room to the other.

Beyond a few words of comfort to Wanda at the beginning of the long wait, no one has said anything. Admittedly, Clint is impressed that Tony has managed to keep his trap shut for so long. He's never known Tony to be a serious and silent person unless the situation is dire. Wanda's agitation is growing though, Clint can sense it from here.

He isn't sure what to do to help her feel better. Helping his team, Laura and the kids is second nature but this is like trying to learn a new language in less than an hour. He doesn't like it.

Natasha rests her hand on Wanda's shoulder and the Maximoff girl twitches slightly but forces herself to still. Clint makes note, confused, but turns anyway to resume his floor sanding.

Thor rests his hammer on the ground the metal making a soft  _thump_ as it lands. Thor pulls a stringy piece of sweaty hair away from his face taking a look at all of them for a moment. Clint sweeps his gaze away from the thunderer as Thor stares at him before Thor breaks the long unannounced agreement of silence. "Be at peace; many warriors have survived worse."

Clint comes to a halt his frustration exploding to dangerous levels. Thor is almost  _immortal._ Of  _course_ he knows warriors who have survived worse. They heal with  _magic_  on Asgard.

"Yeah, like who, Goldilocks?" Tony retorts looking up from the phone irritation written across his face like a well paced novel. Clint's pretty sure his isn't much different.

"He's not a warrior. He's a kid." He says in frustration finally pausing his sanding as the two sentences jumble into one. The sounds blends funnily but Wanda's eyes blink rapidly, anyway.

Clint sighs and looks down at his clenched fists.

This isn't supposed to happen to them. The Maximoff's are good people, a little misguided, yeah, but they don't deserve this. Wanda's trying to hard not to fall apart and he doesn't know how to help her.

"Well, um, there is…" Thor's voice trails off in thought. And, as always, his amazing comforting skills shine through brightly. Tony snorts sarcastically.

"Yep, I feel  _much_  better now."

"He will be  _fine_ ," Natasha presses as if she can command the universe with her voice. She eyes each of them carefully as if daring them to disagree. None of them do and Natasha gives a quick squeeze at Wanda's shoulder. Wanda's head raises and she shoves away from the older woman, making towards the room where the medics and Pietro are. She stands outside the door for a long moment as Clint did himself a little less than twenty minutes ago.

Wanda is completely still her eyes locked onto the door.

"I need to be in there with him." She murmurs softly. She raises a hand up and presses it against the glass of the door.

"You can't." Steve says softly. "We all want to be."

Yes. They do.

He knows he does. He's to the point of finding his remaining explosive arrows and blowing up the door then demanding they let him stay or he'll soak them all in used mop water.

"My brother is the only thing I have left." Wanda admits quietly, almost more to herself than the other Avengers. Her fingers press harder against the glass and Clint stops his pacing to stare at her. Her long brown hair is falling down her back in a messy tangle of knots that makes it seem like it's cut at an angle.

At her words, Clint sees Tony's face fall considerably from the corner of his eye before the Stark looks suddenly  _far_ more interested in his phone than he did before. Clint purses his lips. He isn't sure what the full story is of what happened to the twins but he knows it has something to do with Tony. He knows that the building collapsed but why is still a mystery. Tony works very hard to make himself seem cold and indifferent but he cares too much.

And if Pietro does, Wanda will have nothing, Tony knows this as much as he does.

Not her brother.

Her parents.

Her country.

Or her freedom. She's an enhanced now.

Clint stops, again, his fists clenched, and slams them into the wall; the sound makes a heavy  _thud_ and Clint's fingers rest there for a moment. Pietro is in there because of him. If he hadn't ran off to get the kid or been  _faster_ then everything would have been fine. They would have left with  _both_ twins on their feet instead one on and one with a stopping heart. "It should have been me."

Tony looks up from his phone again and meets Clint's eye with a slightly cold expression-or in the least degree, a heavily frustrated one. "You know, well we're playing the blame-game here, if I hadn't created Ultron, none of us would be in this mess." Tony says and resumes looking at his Stark-phone.

Wanda's eyes fall.

"I agree, let us blame Iron-locks," Thor says with a lighthearted tone. Tony scoffs which is all the proof Clint needs to know that Thor was trying to lighten the heavy mood and Tony's going to help him. Clint doesn't really want them to. It feels wrong to laugh when Pietro is dying.

Tony shoots Thor a pathetic death glare, " _My_ hair looks  _much_ better than yours, Sir I-need-conditioner-and-shampoo-badly."

"You're both pretty, now be quiet," Natasha interrupts the argument before it can progress further and leans against her wall further folding her arms across her chest. Wanda's hand doesn't move from the glass on the door almost as if she can touch her brother and make everything okay again if she simply presses against the glass.

"Why? Us being silent doesn't make this any better." Tony argues.

Clint's legs suddenly can't hold his weight anymore and he slides against the wall collapsing to the ground and presses his back against the cold wall behind him. His fists are still clenched tightly and his head hangs slightly.

If he'd just dived out of the way or made Pietro stay with his sister then he wouldn't be dying. They lost him,  _twice_ on the journey from Sokovia to New York. Tony was insistent that they get him to Avenger's Tower where he has the most advanced medical equipment. His heart had stopped when he saw Pietro tumble, but watching Wanda fall to her knees in the agony of losing her brother before murmuring soft words to him and attempting to calm him by running her shaking hand through his hair was terrible.

The flight hadn't been much better. She'd sat next to Pietro gripping his hand tightly as the medics worked with what they had there looking pale and like she was going to throw up. He'd called Laura after about two hours in and they'd talked for almost an hour as she tried to assure him that it wasn't his fault and asked if he wanted her to come down from the farm. He wanted her too, admittedly, she's better at dealing with this sort of stuff than he is but he said no.

Wanda slides down next to him suddenly and Clint tenses lifting his face up to stare at the pale teen as she gives a tight smile that immediately crumples as she meets his gaze. One wet tear slides down her cheeks followed by another and Clint forces his muscles to relax and hesitates for a moment before awkwardly wrapping his arm around the younger Maximoff.

Wanda stills before leaning into the embrace and starts to cry, burying her face into Clint's shoulder to mask the ugly sobs. Clint just holds her tighter and runs his hand through the tangled weave of knots. Clint looks up as after a few seconds Tony stands up his face resembling someone who was sitting on something incredibly sharp then told to not react. His eyes linger on the sobbing girl for a moment before he points down the hall in answer to his teammates questioning stares.

"I, uh, suit-lab-hair. I'm going to find the kitchen."

Steve raises an eyebrow coming to a small pause as he folds his arms across his chest and stares at the billionaire for a moment. "This is your tower."

Tony shrugs as he walks away shoving his hand into his pockets, posture tense, "Yeah, well sometimes I forget...where...stuff is."

Yeah. Sure.

Thor also looks uncomfortable suddenly and grabs his hammer pulling himself to his feet before and adding, "Some substance might do us good," he then starts to follow the billionaire dubbed Iron-locks.

Somewhere close to an hour passes in silence, the only thing feeling the air being Wanda's gasping breaths that have quieted considerably over the last ten. She's shifted slightly from her original position, turning her body so she's facing straight. Her eyes are red and puffy and she doesn't look any better than she did before she started.

The knot in Clint's stomach is clenching tighter.

Steve is quiet his face twisted in thought before he drums his fingers across his folded arm. He glances at Clint several times before exhaling,"Wanda, maybe you need a second out of the tower." Steve suggests.

Ha, ha-no.

He's already almost lost one twin, he's not losing another one. He trusts Steve, he really does he's just paranoid right now. All he really wants to do is make Pietro heal quickly then wrap both of them in bubble wrap before carrying them to his farm to keep safe. Laura knows how to use a gun and he's trained her a little when she asked so they'll be fine when he has to go out on missions.

When did he get so attached?

He's not.

It's guilt.

Wanda tenses beside him and she raises her large grey eyes to Steve's face looking ready to argue from now to the next century or so. Clint will help her.

"Pietro might-" she pauses taking a forced breath.

_Die._

Clint finishes her sentence in his head.

Pietro might die and she won't be there for it.

"I need to be here when the surgery ends." She says firmly.

Natasha sighs and stands up from the chair she moved to around half an hour ago. Clint looks up at her. She hasn't been very talkative since... _it_ happened. She's not typically a talk your ear off person like Tony unless she's comfortable. Natasha leans down in front of Wanda's ghost-like form her short red hair falling in front of her face."Listen, Kid, you aren't doing yourself or your brother any good here. You can either willing go on a walk with Steve or I'll personally drag you to the kitchen. Your choice."

Clint resists the urge to protest and bites his tongue. The surgery was scheduled to last about twelve hours and their only a little less than halfway through. It's been a long two days though.

Wanda blinks before nodding several times before shakily getting to her feet, Clint pulls his hand back to rest on his lap and watches her rise to her feet. She looks ready to promptly collapse and Clint's brain scrambles for the last time he remembers they ate. Not once during the flight or since they got here. When Wanda gets back, he'll drag her to the kitchen along with everyone else. Actually, he'll drag Natasha there now.  
"Fresh air would be nice." Wanda says softly. Her voice has been so quiet, almost like she's afraid that if she speaks to loudly she'll break something.

"Clint or I will get you whenever the doctors come out," Natasha says and holds up her cell. "I have Steve's number."

Clint whips head head towards the leader in surprise. Steve has a phone? Since when? He isn't big on them. He only agreed to the earpieces so he could communicate with them. Tony must've given it to him. It's the only way Clint can see Steve actually  _getting_ one.

Wanda moves forward stiffly towards the Avenger and Steve sends Clint a look of reassurance (huh, guess his expression wasn't as blank as he attempted it to be) before guiding Wanda out of the room and down the hall with an abnormal amount of windows. When Clint asked about it, Tony merely shrugged with a knowing look and said, "Windows don't hurt as much." It took him nearly a minute to decipher what the billionaire meant.  _To get thrown through._ Clint's not sure if he agrees or not. Natasha sits down next him and stretches her legs out across the ground looking like the definition of exhausted. It's been a few days since any of them got more than a few minutes of sleep.

Natasha rolls her head across the wall towards him, "You should get some sleep, I can wait."

Clint shakes his head, "I'm fine."

She raises a single eyebrow an expression that Clint has know as shut up and listen else you get a gun against your head. "It's not your fault; you couldn't have known."

Clint sighs, "I should have."

000o000

Steve is pretty sure that Wanda hasn't left Sokovia in her life. When they finally make it out of the tower, Wanda's head swivels upwards trying to take in all the sights at once. She doesn't spin, just stands in wonder for a moment her face finally resembling the seventeen year old she is. Sokovia wasn't the richest planet on the planet before it blew up and Steve can't help but give a small sympathetic smile. She reminds him of himself after he woke up from his coma and escaped the S.H.I.E.L.D base. It wasn't an easy adjustment.

Steve moves forward through the city with the younger girl trailing after him looking heavily like a lost kitten. They both probably look like they got run over by multiple buses then decided to go cut roses but fell in them.

No words are spoken between them, they just walk.

Steve shrugs on the jacket he's wearing over his suit more as the chill air starts to seep into his skin. Wanda doesn't look like she minds but after a little longer Steve gradually becomes aware that she's staring at him and isn't stopping.

Steve turns his head to meet her gaze and gives her a skeptical look, "What?"

Wanda flushes and looks away, wringing her hands in embarrassment. She pauses for a moment before looking up at him again, "Sorry, it's just...you don't look ninety."

"You don't look seventeen yourself," he answers with half a smile. He's not sure if that's a good thing, Pietro and Wanda act like their in their twenties, not barely the end of their teenagehood.

Wanda gives a tight one in return, "Pietro would have liked the city." Her voice is slightly wistful and Steve's stomach clenches at her word choice, "would" not "will".

"Don't give up on him, don't." Steve says firmly. He's not giving up on Bucky so she's not giving up on her brother. Despite how much the odds seem against their respective siblings surviving or being found. Bucky is his brother and even if he's missing, Steve is going to find him. Wanda's eyes sweep downwards in frustration and her eyes grow moist again.

" _I'm not._ " Wanda insists, but still doesn't meet his gaze. "I just...I can feel him slipping and I'm terrified. What do I do if he falls?" Her eyebrows meet in her distress and she looks up at him eyes wide. Seventeen. Steve just can't wrap his head around that. Yeah, he lied on his enlistment papers and Peggy lied on hers but that was different.

"If he can feel you in the same way, then you can't think that way, don't give up hope, you hang onto him even if he lets go."

Wanda bites her lip heavily. "I will try."

Steve opens his mouth to respond but the comment is halted as a fist smashes against the back of his head. Steve jerks forward, less so much pain more surprise as Wanda whirls with a sharp yelp jumping backwards. Steve whips his head upwards looking at their surroundings and inwardly kicking himself. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed that they were out for so long or wandering into the more empty parts of the city.

Hopefully it's just a mugger, he can handle a mugger. Wanda's eyes are wide and her fingers tinged red and a protective surge rushes through him.

Steve spins and grabs the fist out of the air that was swinging towards his head again, his fingers wrapping around the knuckle. His eyes meet his attackers, a man dressed in full black with a red symbol sewn into the left shoulder.

"Ouch." He says, more out of annoyance than real pain. The blow should have knocked out any regular person and likely would have killed a normal ninety year old man. Men emerge from the streets and shadows dressed in full black with the red symbol stitched to their clothing, surrounding them.

Well, great.

He left his shield at the tower.

The man glares sharply at him before bringing his feet into a jump and kicking Steve in the stomach. Pain shoots across his abdomen and he grits his teeth as he launches backwards doubling over. What did they make their flipping boots out of? Metal!?

His hand wraps around the abused area as the men draw guns.

_Even better._

A few of the men towards the front fire their weapons and Steve shouts a warning before grabbing Wanda and dragging her down to the ground with him. The bullets hit the building behind them, digging into the cement. What is going on!? Ultron was destroyed, Vision is currently sweeping the earth for any remains of him.  _Who are they?_

Steve lets out a grunt as his chest hits the ground and he lifts his head up before a boot meets his face again. Seriously, what is it with his head!? Steve hisses in pain before rolling to his feet and lifts his hands up into fists his eyes raising to meet those of his attackers.

The man who kicked his face's eyes narrow and Steve glances at Wanda whose getting to her feet, her hands glowing with the red hue.

The second of distraction is all the man needs, with several practiced moves, the attacker has Steve's face pressed against the cement. Something presses against his shoulder, almost like the tip of a dagger and pain explodes through the area, his vision blurs everything spinning. That can't be good.

The pain is pulsing with every beat of his heart and he can't focus on anything else. His muscles are lax and everything else is swimming. Echoing, yet he can't hear it.

Wanda calls his name but he can't respond.

Wanda.

Come on, Steve.

_Get. Up._

Someone kicks his chest again and Steve curls inwards subconsciously. Wanda shouts something else and someone screams near by. What is she doing? Red flies through what he can make out of his hazy vision and blurs are moving everywhere. Steve struggles to work with limbs frustration pulsing through him.

He's a super soldier.  _He's not supposed to go down this easy._

With some effort he manages to get to his hands and knees and his heart skips a beat as Wanda lets out a blood curling scream of pain. Steve whips his head up to see someone with draw a dagger of some sort from her back, crackling with electricity. Wanda's body goes lax and she falls forward only to be grabbed by their hunters.

_Oh._

_That's_  what hit him. It must be some sort of temporary paralysis knife.

_Steve._

He has to get up, he has to get to Wanda, he has to-move, move,  _move._

His vision is still spinning but it is pulling back. "Wanda!" He shouts and she doesn't answer. His panic builds, " _Wanda!"_

One of the men looks back at him and tosses something at him and Steve's eyes widen as the ball rolls towards him but his muscles still aren't moving as he wants them to. Hyrda's crest meets his gaze with a sick cheer before smoke leaks from the edges of the ball. Steve whips his spinning head upwards to look for the attackers but he can't see anything as the smoke covers the entire area.

His limbs are still shaking.

He has to help her.

He rises to his feet and everything spins with such speed he almost topples forward. He can't see anything.

"Wanda!" He shouts.

No answer.

_Kittens._

Steve's shaky hands dig into his jacket pocket searching for the phone he knows Tony shoved into it a few hours before. He doesn't typically carry the device around with him, but Tony had insisted. Steve flips it open cursing slightly as the bright light shines up at him happily despite the confusing buttons playing across it. The light is blinding and in no way, helps his headache. This is why he doesn't tangle with technology unless he has to.

He had a phone he used for a while, but he broke it and Tony's technology is amazingly advanced above anything the public has. Steve jams in the first number he sees and presses call, or he's pretty sure it's call (he's not sure with how everything is blurring) and puts the phone against his ear. It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

If someone doesn't pick up,  _he's_ going to be the one lecturing about devices not Stark, "Steve?" Natasha's voice meets his ear like a rainbow on a cloudy day. Relief crashes through him.

"Nat, we have a problem." Steve says his brain suddenly scrambling for something profound to say. Problem is the only thing he can come up with. " _Hey, I lost Wanda."_ Yup, that's going to go over well. His head is spinning and everything is blurry. Is it supposed to be? No-yes? No that doesn't sound right. Wanda. They have to help her Hydra-they-

"What's going on?" Clint's voice calls in the background.

Steve stills.

Clint it going to murder him, slowly, painfully, with a snow globe or something else entirely harmless to a normal person.

...If Wanda's screams of pain echoing in his head don't do it first.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This one really came from when me and my friend were messing around. It's technically attached to "And I heard a whisper tell me live". :)
> 
> Characters: Tony, Thor
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

Thor loves sandwiches.

Thor, really,  _really,_ loves sandwiches. In fact, Tony isn't sure he's ever seen someone who loves sandwiches as much as the Asgardian. Shoving two into his mouth at once, Thor shoots Tony a hoty smile that, in response to the Stark can barely manage a grimace.

"You really like sandwiches," Tony comments.

"And you really like stating the obvious," comes the retort in between sandwich bites.

"Wow." Tony says as, despite the two sandwiches Thor is trying to chew, the words are still understandable.

"I thought you were hungry," Thor objects.

"Oh, I was," Tony assures with a nod, "until I saw  _that._ " Tony says and waves his hands in Thor's general direction, curling his lip upwards."Plus, I couldn't take all the crying and emotions, but now  _I'm_  feeling like crying, seeing you like sandwiches  _so_  much. Maybe I can get Bruce to take a few hours off of Pietro's surgery, I'm going to need a doctor soon."

Thor's responding expression clearly states, "Whimp."

Tony smacks a hand over his heart, "I have a  _delicate_ stomach!"

Pulling up the peanut butter knife (of which, Tony is disgusted to say Thor used in the jam too) Thor begins to make his next sandwich.

"What number  _is_ that?" Tony asks, not entirely sure if he can mentally handle the answer. It must be above ten. At least. Probably more. Thor's a stress eater.

Thor shrugs.

"I hope you'll be okay," Tony scornfully states. "But if you start throwing up everywhere, I'm not cleaning it up."

Thor snickers in response, and, as he's faithfully done to the last dozen or so sandwiches, presses the pieces of bread together and slices it down the middle in a angle with a knife.

"Why do you even bother cutting it?"

"The crust's gross."

"You're hopeless." Tony moans and lets his head drop onto the countertop.

"No, I'm hungry," Thor replies nonchalantly.

"I'm starting to see why Loki rampaged New York. A thousand years of watching you do this, over and  _over."_ Tony states, his voice muffled through his crossed arms. Thor's amused expression drops almost instantly and he looks far  _less_ willing to eat the entire kitchen without breaking sweat.

Tony lifts his head up to glance at the Asgardian for a moment and notices his fallen expression. Tony gnaws on his inner lip.

" _My brother is dead, Captain, I am here to retrieve his weapon only. He died with honor."_

Yeah, great going there, Stark.

Tony's brain scrambles for a moment before he raises his eyebrow, "I'm seriously disgusted, though, you used the  _same knife."_ Tony says and forces his voice to be far more distressed than he really feels.

Thor rolls his eyes, "I've seen you do the same."

Tony slaps a hand over his heart, " _I_ would  _not._ Have you  _seen_ how furious Bruce gets when he finds peanut butter or jam where they're not supposed to be?"

Thor pauses for a moment his eye twitching slightly, "No."

"It's terrifying." Tony assures then pauses for a second, "


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Loki-becomes-friends-with The Avengers thing. This one was very meh, and didn't hold my attention much, but was a leading inspiration for Stygian. :)
> 
> Characters: Loki, Steve, Thor, Clint, Natasha, Tony, Bruce
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Written: 2018 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

**\**

* * *

After the fight for New York, they agreed to disband. They announced it to the media and split their separate ways not planning on meeting or talking to each other again until they needed to assemble. Even then, when they would be done there would probably be a few quips, then a fist pump or two before they split their separate ways again. That was the plan, anyway, but realistically in life, plans are tossed out windows swiftly and you have to wave them goodbye as they fall. Tony had rooms prepared for all the Avengers, of course, but it was more of incase the need arises thing. It wasn't meant to be permanent.

Bruce was first, he came to the Tower after two months, dirty, pale, hungry and asked to stay the night. The night turned into weeks until it was months. Steve was a week after Bruce came to the tower, helplessly looking for assistance with technology, Tony had sighed, groaned about old age, rolled his eyes before swinging an arm around the super soldier and dragging him into Tower. Steve took up permanent resistance after a week.

Natasha and Clint were a little later. Though Fury had announced to S.H.I.E.L.D. that Clint was innocent there were many, many agents who didn't agree with the statement and took it upon themselves to extract revenge and justice for his crimes through the mind control. Natasha had stuck to the archer's side like glue from what he was told and fended everyone off, mostly because Clint  _wouldn't._ Natasha had explained that he felt that they had a  _right_ to do it and had let was until Clint was nearly strangled and stabbed in sync. Then he had finally fought back, grabbed Tasha and both fled to the Tower seeking medical assistance.

Tony had provided it, a place to stay the night and safety from the crazy agents. Neither returned to the Helicarrier. Fury still handed out missions like candy but they always returned to the Tower, sweaty, tired and Bruce ready to patch up whatever injury they sustained that time.

Thor returned a day after Clint and Natasha came for the first time, stating that Bifrost was repaired and he could offer them assistance now. Tony just shrugged and directed him towards the lunch Steve was making to which Thor had happily complained with a, " _Thank you, Man of Iron"._  They had fought against minor super-villains in the making, blasted a few real ones to kingdom come and had trained together building up a fighting style that became feared.

Tony doesn't trust easily, Obeidah had broken and free threads he had running but somehow his teammates got his friendship first, then his trust. He trusts each of them with his life and even his wife's. Even if Pepper is often away taking care of S.I. business, he knows they would protect her if the need arose. She drops by as much as she's able, anyway and always drags them out of their layers to the kitchen and forces them to eat a meal together, then watch a movie. Tony finds it ridiculous because they are the  _Avengers; a_ supersoldier, assassins, Asgardian, weaponized suit and rage-monster. The act of them doing something so normal and  _family-like_ is strange.

Tony trusts these people with his life, he does, yet right now, even after months of knowing Thor and even being able to tell you what his coughs and sneezes sound like, the minor betrayal and lack of understanding makes him want to tug at his hair. When he woke up this morning in his lab Bruce prodding him with the end of a screw driver telling him it's breakfast, he didn't expect anything to be different about today. Just another of the new crazy normal. Now though...now it's hard.

Tony gives a slow blink, his jaw clenching to the left ever so slightly that to anyone who is paying close attention to his body language can see, clearly, that he's unhappy with this situation. His fingers drum across the top of his upper arm for a moment and he suddenly wishes, aggressively, that he'd just decided to stay in the workshop and let Cap deal with the issue. Nope, Star-Spangled-Spandex had  _insisted_ that he come with the rest of the team because Thor had something so inexpressibly  _important_ he  _had_ to have them for. Even the captain was as in the dark as the rest of them were. Tony exhales through his nose in his agitation, pursing his lips together in a tight line.

Tony, if he's being completely honest felt his mouth working in the gaping fish look before he stopped it, when he entered the room and saw the man sitting on a couch in the corner Thor standing beside him looking ragged and bone tired yet protective and threatening at the same time. A deep frown is etched across his features and his long blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail that's falling apart yet he looks authoritative at the same time.

Clint, to Tony's right, is so tense that he's worried warily in the back of his mind that if someone gives the archer a firm poke on the upper arm, he's going to shatter. It had been a relatively lazy day at the tower so beyond a few knives Clint doesn't have any other weapons on him; his sweatpants and loose Star Wars' shirt with a jacket thrown on it hastily doesn't fit his weary, defensive, emotion all that well. Natasha's eyebrows lower dangerously, but she makes no other movement to show her displeasure. Bruce, standing next to their Captain is slightly pale his glasses sliding down his face, slightly. No green tint, just pale.

Tony, despite himself, sends an irritated look towards the ceiling catching one of the camera's for Jarvis and gives an annoyed stare that he's sure his AI will pick up on. Because why on the name of cake and icing did he have to learn about a crazy insane Asgardian in his living room from  _Steve?_ Did Thor have a long talk with the AI before he got here?

Tony stands in the silence, awkwardly, but for one of the first times in his life, has little desire to fill it. What does he have to say? Beyond the profound, " _What the!?"_ or ever amazing, " _Uhh?"_ that he's sure that all of his fellow Avengers (save Thor) are thinking. What is there  _to_ say? But filling silence is what he'd do when he was younger and it just sort of  _stuck_ because silence only means bad things are happening. Whether it's Howard's disappointment or pain about to arrive, silence is bad.

The door to the lounge/kitchen (is there a name for that?) room behind them gives a swish as it opens again and himself and Bruce whirl their heads in the direction of the opened door as Steve strides into the room looking confidant despite being late and halts abruptly as he sweeps his gaze over the room and blinks several times. Their leader, to his credit, only looks slightly surprised, his blond eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into his hairline in disbelief but the doesn't have the jaw dropped-gaping-fish-look that Tony was trying to sport and slightly expected him to gain the moment he'd stepped into the kitchen/living room area.

Steve gives a choking noise of question and his posture turns to a well hidden fighting stance. Thor glances at the frazzled captain for a moment and gives them all a small nod, his eyes sweeping over them for a moment as if mentally counting them. Yup, all six of us are present...and a friend. Would he really be considered friend though? No, that doesn't sound right. Enemy? Would be killer? Crazed maniac? Yeah, that's better.

Thor releases a long sigh, one of a man worn down to the marrow of his bones and beyond before biting his lip and looks unsure what to say and do next. He licks his lips, that Tony notices are bleeding lazily before clearing his throat. The sound cuts through the thick silence settled between them but doesn't help the awkward tenseness that is present. Unsurprisingly, Thor's attempt at lightening it only makes it worse.

Finally, after another second of enduring this, Steve takes a step forward, "Thor?" He asks authoritatively, in full out Captain-America mode and Thor lifts his gaze from where he was staring at his hammer's hilt as if he'd never beheld it in his life before, to the captain. "What is he doing here?" Tony can tell that Steve tries, r _eally, really, really_ hard to keep the distaste from his voice but it's still there, obvious like fireworks exploding over a dark city no where near a holiday. There really isn't a need to clarify who  _he_ is anyway, they're all fully aware.

Clint's jaw clicks slightly and Tony can  _feel_ the distaste and distrust radiating off of him in waves.

"Please be at peace. Loki-he is unable to cause harm to you." Thor says and Clint snorts as Tony feels his eyebrow quirk upwards sarcastically and sees Natasha's do the same for his peripheral vision.

"Really?" Tony asks dryly, "Please, elaborate for our obviously slow minds."

Steve shoots him a look that clearly states, _Tony,_ in that disapproving voice, that even though he didn't say it verbally, Tony can still hear it clearly in his head.

Thor ignores Tony's snark with ease, "I have come for your assistance. Loki cannot stay in Asgard any longer-he is in need of protection but I don't have the medical equipment necessary to assist him and I was hoping that you could be of help to him…" Thor trails off slightly, which, Tony notes is fairly uncharacteristic of him. It is at this moment that though they all recognized the crazy psychopath from his hair and Thor that Tony and he's pretty sure everyone else takes a moment to actually  _look_ at Thor's wayward little brother.

Loki is sitting on the edge of the couch, staring off into space as if the ceiling has something to offer him that no one else would understand, yet his eyes hold a haunted note to them that borders on exhausted. His long black hair is a tangled mess of loose curls hanging over his shoulder blades. The thin tattered green shirt and black pants don't look, or remind Tony of the crazy power-seeking hungry man that was standing on Avenger's Tower laughing as New York was destroyed beneath him. A man who thrived on chaos. Loki's green eyes are so blank it's almost unsettling. In fact, Tony's not sure he would have even  _recognized_ the gaunt Asgardian if Thor wasn't standing beside him, looking tense, protective and threatening all wrapped in one. Perhaps the most prominent thing that Tony takes note of is the circlet wrapped around Loki's forehead that he doesn't remember previously being there. It's made of a thin silver wire that is lost in the tangles of Loki's messy hair with three small, barely thumb sized stones all pulsing a faint barely noticeable green in the center of his forehead. They actually look like they're  _digging_ into his skin. Tony pushes the thought to the side and drums his fingers across his upper arm again.

It takes Tony a moment to process what Thor said but when he does, he whips his head towards the Asgardian not even attempting to keep the sneer of distaste from his voice. "Protection from  _what_?"

Thor gives another, small sigh, before biting his lower lip looking uncomfortable, again. Tony imagines he  _is_ because Tony's pretty sure if he had a crazy brother and brought him to his teammates for assistance, he wouldn't feel warm and fuzzy on the inside either. Even if it has been close to what, nine months or so now since the attack on New York?

Thor glances at Loki before turning back to gaze at them. "The Chitauri." He says and Tony subconsciously tenses at the mention of the creatures then mentally kicks something because it's fine,  _he's_ fine and the stupid wormhole isn't coming back. Probably.  _Breathe, Stark._ Everything is fine.

Clint gives a low laugh, but it's has a dark edge, "Isn't he the boss? Why does he need protection from them? Bring your kid to work day didn't go over well?"

Thor shoots the archer a sharp glare that Tony's pretty sure he spent a few minutes in front of Loki as the younger adjusted his facial features because it resembles Loki's from when he was shoved into Central Park nearly perfectly. It even has that chilling edge that makes you want to squirm and even if it's not directed  _at_ you makes pleading the next big priority. Thor closes his eyes, his expression softening and he shakes his head several times before turning to look at Steve.

"Captain," He says softly and Tony can feel a pit growing in his stomach and it keeps digging. Because of course, Loki needs medical treatment for whatever injuries he has that Tony can't see beyond ridiculous gauntness and the only place he's going to get that without S.H.I.E.L.D. biting at his back is  _here._  Tony isn't letting a crazy-manic into his Tower. Period. Signed and settled, packaged and received.

"I was hoping that we might take the task of guarding my brother." Thor says the words so quietly that Tony almost misses it. Hawkeye sucks in a breath so rapidly that it sounds physically painful and jerks backwards a step.

"Are you kidding?" Clint hisses and looks ready to murder something but Natasha puts a hand on his shoulder giving a slow shake of her head.

Thor sends the archer a pleading look, "Please, friend Barton, I do not know where else to turn for assistance. My brother's life is forfeit without you." He says and Clint's fingers tighten further. Tony watches him closely, he looks close to hurting something, but not enough to go on a disappearance streak like he was for a little. It was unsettling and the only sign they got that Clint was even still there was the occasional curse echoing down the vents.

"And Asgard? Can't they protect him?" Bruce asks from his position near the door and next to Steve. Ah, excellent question, Tony silently praises before turning back to Thor. An answer would be lovely.

Thor's expression darkens considerably his Loki-glare impersonation directed at something they can't see. "Nay, my father refuses to help and my mother barely managed to convince him to let Loki serve out the rest of his sentence on Midgard before things went, as you say it, swiftly south."

Tony presses his lips together. Hmm. When Thor left for what his mother had declared an urgent matter three weeks ago, Tony, for the life of him didn't expect it to be  _this. Loki_ was the urgent family matter, not that Odin shaved his beard or something else ridiculously stupid. Nope,  _Loki._

Didn't Thor mention something about his brother disappearing somewhere closer to half a year ago? Yeah, he did. Steve had taken that as an invitation to train harder in case the trickster returned to earth for revenge which had only received groans of protest (mostly from him). Well, apparently they found the long-lost crazy family member. Ya-hoo.

Why hasn't Loki said anything yet? Why hasn't he  _protested?_ It just seems so  _wrong_ for Loki to be this quiet. Where is his yelling, screaming and demands for death on all of their heads?

Thor turns his pleading gaze from Steve, apparently have received his answer to Tony, "Will you let him stay at the Tower?"

Tony glances at the rest of his team blinking slowly. Bruce doesn't look opposed to the idea, just not open about it either there's a cloud of displeasure surrounding him and his fists are clenched tightly. Steve has his Captain America face on-which translated from streams of justice and freedom means he's in agreement with Thor-for whatever reason. Clint has a murderous expression on his face which Tony immediately places him in the against category and Natasha looks calm and is watching Loki with what would usually be nerve-wracking gaze of let me shrink into the floor and disappear that the trickster isn't responding to. Strange, because Tony always feels like squirming when Natasha directs at him.

The black-haired trickster is still staring at the ceiling, dead eyes utterly fascinated by whatever he's seeing.

And him? Where does he stand with this whole thing. Loki looks...ill, to put minorly. His skin has a sick complexion and he's far to pale for what should be normal. His thin frame looks so  _small_ compared to Thor's towering one beside him. Still…it's  _Loki._ The dude tried to kill everyone and even if Coulson didn't  _actually_ die;  _attempted_ murder has to count for something, right?

"Seriously?" Tony asks skeptically and he sees Clint relax, slightly, on the edge of his vision, "He tried to kill all of us and wipe out New York, does conquering a planet not seem bad to anyone? Letting him stay here is like  _asking_ for murder in the middle of the night." Tony argues and Thor's eyes flash for a moment.

"My brother is in  _no_ condition to harm any of you."

"He looks pretty okay to me." Natasha says quietly, her voice still drives an edge deeply though and Thor switches his gaze of frustration from him to her. There's still that pleading yet hopeless panicking look in the older Asgardians eyes and Tony for the  _life_ of him can't figure out  _why._

Loki is a murderous, crazy, bloodthirsty,  _villain._

The  _good guys_ don't  _help them._ That's not what they do, they kick them to next tuesday and have pizza. That isn't their mission.  _Loki's_ is sitting in a cell and rotting for blowing up New York and some other stream of crimes he did to another planet before he joined the Chitauri.

"Please," Thor pleads the tone sounding just so  _wrong._

"Please what?" Clint snaps, finally breaking from his moody trance. The archer lifts his head up slightly higher as Thor meets his gaze. "Why should  _we_ offer mercy when he didn't? He  _enjoyed_ watching our city fall and taking my  _flipping_ brain. Why not send him back to the Chitauri, let him build up another plan so we can kick him back to kingdom come?"

This time Thor's gaze shifts dangerously dark and his left hand wraps around the edge of his hammer. "It would be well within a range of wise, Barton, if you take care on how you speak. My brother is under my protection and I will not hesitate to defend him."

"Oh yeah?" Clint draws sarcastically. "Then explain, please, why he  _needs_ it."

Thor's anger falls abruptly and he glances at Loki again before pursing his lips together. He takes in a breath and is quiet for a moment before he begins to speak: "My father's punishment for Loki was for him to fitted with a magical circlet that restricts all his fighting abilities and was sentenced to two thousand years in isolated prison. Included with the circlet was Loki's magic, lying and, this, unfortunately also included his ability to defend himself hand-to-hand with a weapon or anything- though my father didn't seem to care much for this." Thor pauses, seeming to be gathering his thoughts. The last part is muttered slightly darkly and Tony can tell that it was more of a muttered thought that what he was trying to say. Tony can feel some of the distaste gnawing away with slight pity as he stares at Loki again. The younger Asgardian still hasn't said anything yet but his blank face grew slightly tighter as Thor spoke. The ceiling, however, still has his full attention.

"Three months after the sentence was spoken, Loki disappeared from his cell. No one knew where he went, what happened or how he broke the circlet-but he didn't. Heimdall found my brother wandering on the planes of Asgard six months later barely living. My mother thinks he used one of his paths between worlds to escape from wherever he was. My father didn't agree and wouldn't let my mother heal his wounds and sentenced Loki to death because he is sure that Loki escaped and cast an illusion on himself to fool us. Admittedly, I agreed with him at first." Thor says his voice growing tense and weary at the end. He glances down at his little brother again biting his lip before looking up at them again. His blue eyes wide and pleading.

"Please, at least help my brother heal then we can move on. I'm not leaving him, not this time."

Tony clenches his jaw slightly as the new information is laid on the table metaphorically (not literally because you can't lay verbally information on a table-unless it was written, down or recorded on a disk or-whatever analogy destroyed). The circlet, that looked slightly annoying or even superior suddenly looks far less inviting. Tony's not angry or really rooting for the trickster but Thor looks so close to passing out from exhaustion Loki on his heals. He doesn't care for Loki, but Thor is like a crazy older brother that Tony never had.

Despite what the media will post or magazines write out in big bold, Tony isn't heartless. He's just very good and masking emotions. Tony lets out a soft raspberry and grits his teeth looking at Thor again. He glances at the rest of his teammates trying to determine if anyone has changed their previously designated parities. Clint's eyebrow is slightly raised and Natasha looks more blank than she did before but other than that, no.

This is...this is still so  _wrong._ Loki doesn't even seem to have that insane aura around him, he looks...calm, well as calm as someone can be sitting on the couch of their enemy. It's just such a contrast from the Loki who trashed New York. Tony grits his teeth together and sends a mental apology as well as starts a list of things he can assist Clint with before looking Thor in the eyes, "Fine. But he breaks anything and I'm defenestrating  _him_  this time."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippet that went absolutely no where, but, meh, I think it had potential. Hard to tell.
> 
> Characters: Loki
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

In hindsight, it probably would have been better if he hadn't accepted the offer.

Loki lets out a long, rather dramatic groan as he looks up at the stars blurring in his vision. The sky is  _remarkably_  blue today, he notes offhandedly to himself as he lays on the ground limbs aching as he attempts to breathe properly again.

His ribs hurt, his head hurts and the sky is still shining annoyingly down on him, like nothing had gone wrong and Moa hadn't tossed him.

His fingers dig into the dirt curling as another wave of pain crashes through him. It really shouldn't have been so bad, getting tossed from Moa always left him breathless, (stupidly tall mare) but in the forest hitting a tree is always a possibility and with his incredible luck, Loki had done just that.

And to think, this morning his biggest concern was if he could make it through his almost two thousand paged book before the end of the day and still have time for another.

But Thor had been persistent and Loki had come to the realization that unless he accepted the offer to go riding with his obnoxious older brother he wasn't going to leave him be. And so, here he was laying on the ground because Thor had spooked Moa (on purpose-which is a  _very, very, very,_ hard thing to do-Loki knows, he's tried many times) and Loki had been tossed.

Even now, he can hear Thor's loud laughter ringing in the back of his head like a pounding hammer to his skull.

He's going to strangle Thor, then give his body to a snake to feed on for centuries.

Loki scowls at the happy blue sky again before slowly shoving his hands against the rough dirt and pushing himself into a sitting position. Thor is still laughing from atop his stallion, Victory and Loki glares at him darkly. "That," he begins his voice dark and hissing, "Was in no way  _funny."_

Thor responds with a large smile, "I found it quite humorous actually, brother."

Loki gives him a deadpan look before raising his hand and waving it left. The magic works without fault and Thor goes flying off of Victory in a very un-princely manner his legs sticking up and his obnoxious red cape he's so fond of covering his face.

Loki snickers and gets to his feet moving towards Moa. The dark mare is still glaring at Thor from his prank in a rather dark way. Loki rests a hand on her face, "At least let me  _help_ you murder him." Loki says both glancing at the crown prince.

Thor waves his cape off of his face and gives Loki a small scowl. "I would really prefer if you didn't."


	13. Limbs Maimed, Vision Hazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: My Revengers fic that failed. Yay!
> 
> Characters: Loki, Thor, Bruce, Brunnhilde, Asgardians.
> 
> Warnings: Some depressive thoughts.
> 
> Written: 2019 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

Her head is pounding.

Her hands are shaking.

Her throat is dry.

And it is, in fact, probably in her best interests not to commit the murder she's currently envisioning with vivid detail. Brunnhilde releases a tight breath through her chest and forces her attention to expand out beyond the fact that her solution to this is to bang some heads against the wall, stand up and storm off. It would be both rude, and get her more looks than she really cares to gather at the moment. Not that it matters much, their eyes that don't leave no matter what she does anyway. She is a long-dead hero, here for them to gawk at again.

She's not banging some skulls.

This isn't Sakaar.

She can't do that anymore.

This is Asgard, and  _here_ she is required to act as something else. She isn't allowed to solve all her problems by throwing something or going after it with a big weapon. Shattering glass won't solve anything. And this isn't even a  _problem,_ isn't it? She's merely just frustrated and wants to  _stop listening to old men whine._

Alright.

"Whining" is probably not a fitting word.

Expressing concerns over the fate of everyone present that are actually ligament is more accurate—but, still.  _Mind numbing._ Her head hurts. Her hands are shaking and all she  _really_ wants to do is curl up in a ball of misery where no one can watch her, wrap a blanket around her pathetic heaping mass and  _run._ That's all she's good at now, running away. Running and running and running until she can't  _breathe_  anymore because she's trying to escape the prison she's willingly walked into. She wasn't prepared for this.

_She was not prepared for this._

_She will never be ready._

Why did she think she was ready for this? She would somehow walk back into Asgard with a cape on and suddenly she would be prepared to take up the mantle of Valkyrie again? Ha. Ha.  _Ha._

"—do?" The voice snaps her back into the room, presently, and she jerks her head slightly as her focus clicks into place. Where it's supposed to be, instead of wandering off among her thoughts and remaining lost there. Which isn't something she's horribly opposed to.

She flicks her gaze up, hoping no one caught her daze, to the other occupants of the room. Eight others are seated on the chairs they could pull together (the Grandmaster doesn't exactly have a surplus of folding chairs, for the most part seating has resorted to the ground—which is nothing  _she's_ against, but the Asgardians haven't exactly been living in poverty for the last thousand years). Brunnhilde isn't quite certain how she got dragged into this, but here she is.

Lord Arkenson was the one who voiced the question (maybe? Brunnhilde's mind is fuzzing around the edges and when Thor introduced them about ten (fifteen?) minutes ago; so she wasn't paying  _as_ much attention as to ingrain the names of the six others in the room), but the details of  _what_ he said have been lost to her.

For the most part, the only thing that's been discussed is the "what now" situation. Brunnhilde has no recommendations, her survival skills aren't exactly the most healthy— _focus, you idiot._ She bites on her tongue heavily and stares at the floor heavily, shifting forward and clasping her hands together on her lap.

The floor is a mess.

Brunnhilde never really knew the Grandmaster to be one who  _cleans,_ but this is ridiculous. Dark, dirt smears skid across the floor, and it wouldn't be quite as obnoxious if the rest of it wasn't white.

Talking.

They are talking and she's supposed to be focused on that. Not how much her hands are shaking and her head hurts.

She tilts her gaze up.

"—I don't know." One of the women murmurs. "We have to get this under control—find something to help. We can't survive the rest of the journey like this. Midgard is nearly six months' time from Asgard. How will we provide for the citizens?"

Ah.

That.

Right.

No food, little water. They're flying slowly towards their impending death, and  _that_ is why the council meeting was called. Yes. Panic away. When her head hurts less and her stomach stops backflipping, she'll probably join them in that. At the moment, she's a little busy.

_Stop it._

Thor, who is sitting beside her, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His hands have been flexing in and out with agitation since gathered for the meeting nearly fifteen minutes ago. The flexing is something she's assuming is a nervous habit, but she's not certain. She's known Thor for maybe eight days now; she has hardly had time to write an essay of his habits.

The men and women look considerably glum as to what the woman (Pettidottir, or Fydottir, one of them is redheaded, and the other brunette, but the for life of her, Brunnhilde can't tell them apart) said. She can't exactly blame them. Looking on the bright side hasn't exactly been the goal of the meeting. But it would be nice if they weren't determined to depress all of them to death—just a thought, and her personal opinion.

The group is what remains of King Odin's curia regis—Asgard's elite council members. Typically, it has twelve members: three women and nine men with the king and queen at the head and the king's adviser (usually a sibling or close friend) as a second in command. Today, it bares the six remaining members from Hela's skirmish, Heimdall among them; the Gatekeeper of the Realm has always been reserved a place on the curia regis—Politics was something that she had to study when she was training to become a Valkyrie.

She recognizes only one of the men from the council  _she_  left behind after the slaughter of her sisters: Thor's uncle, Vili. The man was not one she particularly liked nor did she get along very well with him. He's an aggravating person who has seen the darker parts of Asgard and helped King Odin with his endeavors to change everything: because of this, she's pretty sure that's why the only things he has to say now are negative or depressing.

"Are there any outposts nearby?" Thor asks, his tone is carefully even as he looks towards where Heimdall is seated on the other side of the room between one of the two women and Lord Arkenson (maybe, could be Sir Borison, but she honestly can't remember).

She's definitely nauseous.

Why do they have to keep talking about food?

Heimdall gives a slight dip of his head in answer, "About a day's time from here."

Good. Excellent. Maybe she can find something to make her stomach stop clenching and her head stop spinning round and round and round—

"How are we to pay for it, my king?" Sir Borison (maybe Lord Arkenson) asks, his voice is thinned, "We don't carry Asgard's treasury in our pockets and this...Grandmaster did not leave much on the ship."

Beyond party supplies and a surprising amount of bedding, yeah, not really. She has been wrangled into sharing a room with Thor, Loki and Bruce (the Hulk is still running amok at the moment and Brunnhilde can't say she's to terribly disappointed about that), but she has yet to step foot in it. When she needs to sleep, she finds somewhere far away from the designated "rooms" area to hunker down for a few hours.

Hours because space does not set or rise, but the engineers have hooked a timer to the lights. Twelve hours with them brightly buzzing and ten with them dimmed. It resembles night, but it's not like living on a planet with the moon and stars to announce the arrival of darker hours. Her sleeping schedule has always been a mess, but it's gotten worse since she stepped foot on the  _Statesmen._

Thor nods slightly and runs a hand through his hair, a slight wince tensing between his shoulders and his eyes tighten. Brunnhilde stares at him for a long second, confused.  _Wince?_ Is he in pain? As far as she's aware, he's fine beyond his missing eye. She swore to defend the crown until her death and she's held to the promise as best she can over the last few days between her aching body to keep Thor from doing anything stupid.

Loki, too, is technically thrown into the equation, but she's seen little of him since he was requested by the healers for aid, so she hasn't worried much. Even now, the prince was unable to attend the meeting because of this, despite his place at Thor's right side. Thor asked him to be his adviser and though it would have been among the  _last_ positions she would have given him, Loki accepted.

Thor.

Her mind is a mess.

He winced.

Where is he in pain?

"I know that Loki stole a great deal from the Grandmaster," Thor says, carefully settling his hands on his lap and flexing them again. Brunnhilde pauses for a second, processing that.

_Oh._

She hadn't really thought to question  _where_ all the supplies they would need to house people would come from, but Loki had apparently thought ahead. In the brief time she's known him, he's done that. It annoys her to no end. His mind doesn't seem to  _stop,_ buzzing around and around until he's mapped out in vivid detail everything that is to happen from today until six years from now. "But I'd have to ask him if he thought to take money."

Probably.

Wait—He stole  _money_  from the Grandmaster?

 _Norns_ he's an  _idiot._

He has a death wish, or he's a lot better of a thief than she gives him credit for.

The curia regis seems to shift uncomfortably and the other woman leans forward, long brown hair falling off her shoulders, "Should we really be trusting funds from Sakaar? It's practically nowhere— will it work as currency here? Time is disjointed around that realm, it could be far outdated."

Yes. She knows.

"The ships still run as well as Asgard's." Thor points out. Not...not exactly. The  _Statesmen_ runs fine at the moment, but Asgardian engineers have looked at the engines and the power sources, and from what she's seen and heard they haven't been to impressed. The fact is, is that if they don't all give out on starvation or dehydration, the ship is going to. They're kicking a dead horse into running, but, according to Korg, it was the biggest ship the Grandmaster owned.

Lord Fredilson sighs under his breath, "We're all doomed to starvation."

"Indeed." Lord Vili agrees, his eyes narrowing and the thick, bushy white eyebrows he's currently sporting making a show of hiding his lids from view completely. "If we had simply thought ahead of the consequences for what this was meant to be—it all could have been avoided."

Thor flinches visibly. Brunnhilde lifts her head to faintly scowl in the man's direction.

Negative, per usual.

There was no other way—Brunnhilde  _knows_ this. She watched Hela kill her sisters in less than an hour and leave their bodies to rot with her on Helheim. King Odin's contingency plan  _was_ for Asgard to go up with Hela; it's fate has been sealed since the firstborn's banishment.

"What's done is done," Heimdall says firmly, "we must focus on what is now. We will aim for this outpost to gather supplies—make trades if we must. We will find a way to provide for the citizens."

"But what if we can't?" Sir Borison (or Arkenson) questions, his voice is faint. "We can't give them false hope—we shouldn't, it's cruel."

"It is more cruel to leave them with none." Heimdall says firmly. "We will inquire of the prince about the funding, and we will gather what we can for trading in the meantime."

The room remains quiet, and a few awkward stares are passed between them.

"I'll talk with him," Thor offers when no one else jumps up at the prospect of it. He turns his head towards Heimdall and Brunnhilde notices something that she hadn't in the blinding lights from the ship before. Thor's face is pale and his hair is slick with sweat around the edges. He bares heavy shadows under his eyes as well. He looks ill. "Is he still with the healers?" Thor questions.

"Yes." Heimdall affirms, giving a slight dip of his head.

Thor nods once and turns to look towards the curia regis. "Is there anything else that needs to be further discussed?"

"No, my king." Lord Fredilson says. His voice is stiff.

The other members give slight shakes of their heads and Thor nods once before rising to his feet, posture slightly hunched.

Sick.

He's sick.

And he hasn't said anything.

Brunnhilde eyes him heavily for a long second before standing as well. "I'll join you," she states and Thor side glances her for a second before his lips thin and he gives a slight nod.

She glances back at the council for a final time before she and Thor exit the room, slipping into the abandoned hall adjoining it. Going left from here will lead them to the bridge where the Asgardian's typically gather during the day, but going right will lead to the sleeping chambers after a bit of navigation. Forward is where it dips to the lower levels and  _that's_ where they've been keeping the ill. Dehydration is starting to become a problem, even with the rationed water. The food is nearly gone, but any water that remains is nearly drained clean.

Thor begins to move forward and Brunnhilde stays at his side. They walk in silence for nearly two minutes before he tilts his head towards her. "Is there a reason that you joined me?" He questions. She wants to grind answers out about whatever it is he's sick with and she'd prefer to do it in private.

"I'm bored?" She offers.

Thor raises an eyebrow, "I have my doubts."

She rolls her eyes slightly and releases an annoyed breath before looking at him again, "Are you well?" That sounds direct. Should it be that direct?

He's holding his spine weird, that's why his posture looks so obnoxious. Chest injury?

Now he's watching her wearily. "I...I don't understand why you're inquiring about—" He starts to say, but Brunnhilde's patience gives and she lifts up a finger to jab him in the chest. Thor winces immediately and makes a pained noise, hand coming to cover the area as he smacks her arm away at the forearm with his other.

Yup, definitely a chest injury.

She lifts her gaze to his face and lifts an eyebrow.

Thor doesn't hold her eyes and bites at his tongue heavily, looking embarrassed. "I...um…" He stutters.

" _Idiot."_ She bites out.

She sighs through her teeth and latches a hand around his wrist dragging him forward through the hallway. She's had more than enough time over the last few days to do a complete map out of the ship with her feet. She hasn't gotten everywhere yet, but most places she's visited or at least glanced at. As part of her training, she was required to memorize elaborate maps and pathways in and out of the palace for the protection of the royal family. It's habit now, and one that she relies heavily on.

Thor begins to shove out excuses and protests to her actions as they move, but she's ignoring him. He needs medical attention, so he's going to get it, kvetching or not.

"Valkyrie—" Thor tries again, he sounds desperate, " _please,_ it is not as bad as it seems—stop,  _stop,_ they are busy and—"

Valkyrie.

Angry Girl.

Scrapper One-Forty-Two.

She's all titles now, isn't she?

Brunnhilde snorts and glances back at him through her braid. "I'm not dragging you off to the healers, Majesty."

He looks lost. "Then why…?"

She shakes her head slightly and sighs under her breath, pulling him forward. There's a medical closet near the Healer's Room-Hall-whatever they decided to call it that they can take things from. She was trained in medical arts when she joined the Einherjar.

Thor apparently realizes that she's not going to answer any of his questions and wisely clamps his mouth shut. She's fine with this. She's under oath to  _protect_ him, not talk to him.

They reach the closet (really more of a small room) and Brunnhilde opens the door and shoves Thor inside, flicking on the single light bulb. Thor staggers a few steps, but before he's regained his footing, she's shoving him onto one of the crates present for a makeshift seat.

The medical supplies is nothing they're short of. She's been through a few of the crates and otherwise messy piles since they arrived here and there is more than plenty for future and current injuries. Tonics, potions, bandages, pretty much anything she could think of—but no healing stones. Not that she really was  _looking_ for any, but they aren't present. It's something only native to Asgard that only reacts  _with_ Asgard's atmosphere, so even now they would be useless. But still, she has come to rely on other methods beyond the enchanted rocks. Like rags, water, and gauze.

Loki probably took all of this, too.

Thor mentioned he was late when they were on the Bifrost.

This, along with the rest of his thievery, is likely why.

If only he'd assumed they would be in space for more than a few days, perhaps the panic as they run out of necessities to sustain life would be less. She forces herself from her head and clenches her shaking hands into fists, turning to look back at Thor for a second as she gathers supplies she's assuming she'll need.

"Alright, shirt off." She commands.

Thor hesitates. He looks like he would rather have his leg being chewed on by a wyvern than speak with her. She feels about the same. If he didn't look so ill, she would let this slide and only bring it up again if he collapsed. And isn't that terrible? If her commanding officer could see her now...what shame she would feel.

Brunnhilde's a mess that helped destroy the land of her ancestors _,_ broke her oath to never drink of alcoholic beverages, sold both  _princes of Asgard_ into  _slavery—_ even if Loki managed to win his freedom by defeating the Grandmaster's chosen victim—and now she couldn't care less if either of them were to abruptly kick the bucket.

Alright.

Yes, that's a lie, but she should care  _more._

She took up Dragonfang again and pledged her life to Thor's throne, but now she doesn't know how to go about  _doing_ that. Or if she can. She's not fit for this anymore. The woman who left Asgard to stop Princess Hela's release with her sisters is not the one who stands in this small closet trying desperately not to vomit.

Who is she supposed to be now?

Her hands won't stop shaking.

She feels sick.

A clenched tightness in her chest that doesn't go away or ease with time.

Sick and sick and  _sick._

 _Focus._ Thor. Injured.  _She needs to do something about that._ "Off." Brunnhilde repeats, her voice is pinched but she could care less. She looks back at Thor, "I need to check the gaping wound your hiding, so  _off._ "

He stares at her pleadingly, but her resolve refuses to waver. His jaw clenches firmly with discomfort before he moves to start undoing the latches of the armor he's been wearing for four days straight. No, longer; he wasn't given a change of clothing on Sakaar save the one he was allowed to fight Hulk in. Eight days now, then?

Only very few of them have any spare clothing and it's going to start showing  _and_  smelling soon. Brunnhilde is not among that lucky group. She lived in her ship and  _that's_ on Sakaar, and the clothing she left on the Grandmaster's celebration of birth ship is with the rubble of Asgard. She has the undergarments of her armor (a black shirt and pants) and that's it.

She blows out a breath as she watches Thor fumble, but doesn't take a step forward to assist.

Thor carefully sheds his armor, wincing and Brunnhilde can see him biting at his tongue every few seconds. His pain tolerance is something to be noted—she, too, has been slammed by Hulk and it is  _nothing_ to laugh over—but it doesn't seem to be helping him any here. The shirt he's wearing was  _likely_ a deep gray at some point, but it's splotched with deep stains in some areas that Brunnhilde can see an effort was made into washing them out, but it didn't help.

After a second, he carefully pulls the clothing away from his skin. She nearly drops the supplies with surprise. His chest is a mess of bandages swinging back and forth from one edge to another, but some of it is stained with pus or blood. She thought maybe a single wound—that would be it. A long gash or something. Norns she was not expecting this.

Brunnhilde swears, loudly.

Thor looks up at her, blue eyes wide. In the dim lighting of the single bulb, his face looks anxious.

She shakes her head as she leans forward and pulls of some of the stained bandages, seeing the broken, raw and blistered wounds. There a mess across his torso from multiple blades; in a few areas, it's stitched together, but the threading is sloppy and they're the worst of the infection. The damage is not nearly as bad as it should be, blood clotting appears to have happened and the damage to the tissue doesn't seem to severe which reassures her that he  _is_ healing, but it's not at the speed it should be. Brunnhilde doesn't think it will be possible to avoid scarring. They aren't close enough to Asgard for that anymore.

His healing factor, like hers, is probably much weaker the farther away they are from Asgard. They need more food consumption for the effects to be magnified to the point they are— _were—_ were on Asgard. Brunnhilde has spent a great chunk of her existence away from Asgard (whether on errands for the king or Sakaar), but with food intake she's managed to keep her healing factor up to speed. She imagines that all of them are feeling the effects of Asgard's natural filling of this stripped away suddenly. She isn't. She was on Asgard for less than two hours before it was ripped from the cosmos.

_When did this happen?_

She looks up at Thor as she begins to unwind the messy bandages. "What happened?" She demands. He looks like he fell into one of the frozen ice streams on Jotunheim. She has seen effects of such, it's not pretty.

He looks at her, but he seems slightly dazed.

" _Thor."_ She presses.

"Hela." Thor girts out between clenched teeth. Brunnhilde's lips thin tightly.

_Oh._

She releases a breath out through her nose, trying to remain calm. "This was three days ago, Majesty," she says slowly, tossing the bandages to the side, "how much worse was it then?"

Thor looks abruptly uncomfortable.

He should.

She's going to kill him. Then Hela again. Maybe she'll kill Hela again first,  _then_ Thor.

"Only six healers survived from the palace," Thor says at last, though his voice is very quiet, "I...I am not as important as everyone else. It will heal on its own given time."

She blinks at him, startled. Why is…? He's serious. Of  _course_ he's serious. Stupid, selfless  _idiot._ Brunnhilde cusses again and shakes her head with disbelief. "You're daft, Majesty."

Thor looks at her, but his expression is more confused than offended, "What?"

She sighs and leans forward, plucking a rag from the medical supplies and grabs the water canister at her hip—the small ration that she's been given for the day—and dumps a generous amount onto the rag. She can go thirsty, it's nothing she hasn't done before. Her throat already feels like it's on fire, so this can't be much different.

Her hands are still shaking and the water tips out with less control than she wanted.

"Valkyrie—" Thor starts with disapproval. She doesn't care. It's not his water, it's  _her's_ and she's not the one who has at least eight stab wounds on his chest with a variety of bruising elsewhere. Hulk, she's assuming, is the culprit behind that. Why didn't anyone think to ask Thor about being wounded, she  _saw_ him get stabbed on the bridge by his sister and said  _nothing._ Why didn't  _she_ think to ask about it before now?

She presses the cloth against his wounds and wipes the worst of the blood and yellowing infection from it. She cleans his torso as much as she can and, after smearing some of the antibiotics on the worst of the wounds over the stitching, she covers them with bandages tightly and sits down next to him, releasing a breath. She caps the bottle shut that's mostly empty now—save perhaps a small handful—and wipes her hands on her pants.

Thor awkwardly pull his shirt on over his chest again, but doesn't move to pick up the armor. He looks strangely vulnerable without it. Smaller. Norns, he is so much younger than she first thought. They had just celebrated his birth when Hela attempted her escape. She never saw the christening, but given the rough estimation of time from then to now, he must be somewhere along the lines of exactly Midgardian mid-twenties. Younger, likely. Twenty-three?

She tilts her head up towards him. "Does Loki know?"

Thor tenses, closes his eye, then shakes his head. "No."

No one would blame her if she throttled him. "...Did anyone before me?"

Another shake, but this time it's mute. Brunnhilde leans forward and rests her aching head in her shaking hands. She was not prepared to deal with this today. She doesn't know a time when she  _would_ be, but right now, she just...she feels young and helpless again.

"Valkyrie," Thor's voice is hesitant, "did...did I anger you?"

What?

Anger.

She's always angry. Yes. He did anger her.

She looks up at him between her fingers, "Yeah." She runs her hands across her face, suddenly exhausted. "You look awful. When was the last time you slept?"

"Sakaar." Thor admits with a slight shrug.

She stares at him incredulously.

How the bloody—this is fine. Fine. It's all fine. She whacks his arm with frustration and he looks towards her face. "That's it." She declares, her patience has slipped and Thor keeps dancing on it's grave. It was never excessively large to begin with, but she can feel the frays slipping between her fingers and she can't get them to clench tight enough.

"Get up, you're going to bed." She says, rising to her feet.

"But, Loki—" Thor tries. She lifts up a hand, cutting him off. Right. That. Money. Location. She can ask him, it doesn't  _have_ to come from Thor.

"Shut up."

"But—"

" _Shut up."_ She avers firmly, "I'll take care of it. Now, I can drag you there or you can walk."

Thor pauses for a second and looks like he's actually debating it before he sighs and rises to his feet. "Right. You'll tell me of the results?"

"When you wake up." She assures. "C'mon, Majesty."

000o000

They're almost to the sleeping quarters when she nearly rams face first into Bruce. She rocks on her heels, tilting away from her toes as Bruce scrambles backwards, surprise evident in his expression. His hair is a bit of a mess and there's a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but he looks otherwise fine. Brunnhilde has been keeping slight tabs on the Hulk, but from her understanding he was mostly following Thor around.

They were teammates on Midgard, from what she's put together.

"Bruce!" Thor exclaims, his expression is alight with surprise and jublicance. "It's good to see you!"

"Yeah! Hey." Bruce agrees, looking strangely out of place. His hands keep shuffling awkwardly towards the sleeves of his long shirt. It looks like an Asgardian robe, but where it came from is a different story. Bruce looks between them for a second before his shoulders slump with relief. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you." He reassures.

Thor moves forward and gives him a quick embrace though she notes that he's careful with his torso. He's been doing it for days, and  _now_ she notices? Some Valkyrie she is.

"How are you?" Thor questions.

"A little tired, mostly hungry." Bruce admits with a slight shrug. "Heimdall found me and explained...about it. I'm sorry about Asgard, Thor." He says sincerely. "I wish we could have found something else to stop your crazy sister."

Thor's expression grows tight for a second—but it's so brief she half wonders if she imagined it. "Yes. Well. What happened happened and there is no need to dwell on the past."

_Asgard is a place, not a people._

More fidgeting with the sleeves. Bruce nods, "All the same, though. I...um, I've been looking for you."

Brunnhilde shifts her position slightly, folding her arms across her chest and leaning into her hip so she can watch their expressions a little better.

"What can I do for you?" Thor's energy is a facade.

"Hulk. Hulk wanted…" Bruce pauses, then rewords with: "He smelled blood on you and—yeah. He couldn't do anything about it, but I'm a doctor so, um," he shrugs awkwardly. Brunnhilde's shoulders slump with relief and she quietly thanks anyone listening as she gives Thor a shove towards the Midgardian.

"Great. Put him to bed." She commands, "I already checked him over and cleaned what I could."

Bruce looks surprised and helps steady Thor from the imbalance, his gaze resting on her. She forces herself to remain calm under his gaze despite her itching urge to run. She wants out of their stares.

Away from Thor, so she doesn't have to be reminded constantly of her failure.

She wants  _out._

_Away._

"I'm going to go talk with Lackey." Brunnhilde says quickly. Before either have time to argue, she turns on her heel and walks away; but, in honestly, it should have been labeled as "bolting".

000o000

The medical room smells as she was expecting: antiseptic and stale. Neither helps the nausea spinning in her stomach.

The walls are a faint orange with white trim wrapped around the top as a border, but it still feels bare and lifeless. Lights are buzzing from the ceiling at their full capacity, giving a gritty feeling to the room, which in turn adds to the lifelessness. Despite this obnoxious lighting, it doesn't seem to be enough for the healers. She can spot some magical shards floating through the air acting as smaller, more focused bulbs of light. It's unpleasant. The room is large, but feels smaller from the people littered across the floor.

Many of the people are adults, but she spots a few sickly children towards the edges being gently caressed by either their parents or one of the healers. There are whispered conversations being spoken between the ill, but none seem able to raise their voices loud enough for the sound to be pulsing. There are no cots, no mattresses, nothing but the cold, barren ground and a thin blanket for the ill and injured.

It reminds her of a battlefield of fallen warriors, and Brunnhilde flicks her gaze away. She processes this in about three seconds before taking another step into the room, keeping a steady hand against the doorframe for support. She feels eyes flick up to her, and does her best to ignore it, searching among the sea of heads for Loki's dark hair with little success.

A young woman with straight, but messy, blonde hair materializes beside her suddenly and Brunnhilde nearly jumps.  _Bloody sorcerers._

"Can I help you?" She asks, expression furrowed as she stares Brunnhilde over with a professional gaze. She's looking for injuries. This  _is_ a medical bay, Brunnhilde doesn't really have any other reasons to be in here unless she's sick or dying. But she's neither. The girl's accent is thick, she was likely born in the upper class of Serenity, the capital. Those from further out in the outskirts, usually beyond Speckle Point and the Whitewashed Cliffs have a thinner drawl. At least, it was the last time she was there.

Everything is so different, but hardly seems to have changed.

Brunnhilde forces herself to stay present, then draws herself together. "I'm looking for Loki."

The woman's brow draws together tighter, "The prince? Last I heard he was helping Erei with Idrissa's daughter." She makes a move take a few steps away, but Brunnhilde clasps her upper arm, stopping her. She hasn't been in this room, she has no idea where Idrissa is, or even  _who_ she is. The only Asgardians she  _knows_ are few, and she's barely been acquaintances with them for more than a few days.

Brunnhilde's lips thin and she nods, "Where would that be?"

The woman's face flushes with embarrassment for a second, "Oh, sorry; it is over there," the woman gestures towards their left where Brunnhilde, after some angling with her head, can see the familiar raven head. She nods her thanks and releases the healer, moving across the room quietly and quickly as to avoid waking anyone who is resting. But no one really appears to be sleeping and their eyes follow her.

She can't say she's fond of it.

Brunnhilde gnaws on her inner cheek tightly and reaches Loki after a few more paces. He's sitting on the ground cross legged, hand resting on a small girl's forehead. His eyes are closed as he breathes rhythmically. Across from him an, older woman is beside a younger one who has the girl's hand between her own. The older woman—Erei, was it?—is conversing quietly with the mother as Loki...does whatever it is he's doing.

Sorcery's not her forte.

In her youth, it was considered shameful for warriors to learn it, so Brunnhilde never did.

Guessing by Thor and Loki's fighting styles, that particular way of thinking changed, or at least  _laxed_ during her absence.

Erei looks up at her and her gaze briefly flickers with surprise, before dipping in respect, "My lady," she addresses. Loki's expression twitches, but he doesn't look up at her. The mother's eyes rise and she locks with Brunnhilde's gaze. After a second, her eyes flicks to the white lies on her face and recognition sparks.

"Y-You're the last Valkyrie." She says, her words stuttered. Do people have to keep reminding her of that?

"Yeah." She grits between her teeth.  _Be nice._ She quietly chastises herself.

"What can we do for you, my lady?" Erei questions.

"I need to speak with Lack-Loki," she corrects herself mid sentence, "when will he be done with...that?" She gestures lamely in the prince's direction and Erei's eyebrows lift with slight amusement. Brunnhilde stifles a gnawing sensation of embarrassment that roots itself in her stomach. Why do people expect you to know everything when they admire you? She's an idiot when it comes to sorcery, alright, why can't they accept that and move on? She hates this demeaning attitude.

Erei faintly smiles, "He's putting her in a healing trance for a few days," she explains, "I can take over, it is time that he takes a break, anyway." Erei sends an exasperated look in the raven haired man's direction before turning to the mother, "Fli will be fine; the wound is healing neatly, even now."

The mother's hand tightens around her daughter's, "I know, I know—but she's all I have now and I—I—" Tears threaten to spill and Brunnhilde is momentarily paralyzed. What on the  _Nine_ is she supposed to do if the mother breaks out into hysterical sobs? The only people she's good at comforting are those she  _knows_ and that's with a broom in hand from several feet away as she pats them on the shoulder with the bristles.

Erei rests a hand on her shoulder with sympathy, "I understand. I feel the same over my husband, rest easy." Erei releases a breath and rests a hand on the girl, Fli's forehead. After a second she turns towards Loki, "My prince," she murmurs, "I am taking over now."

Erei's eyes slip shut and her body relaxes abruptly as Loki jerks forward with a jolt. His head whips up and his green eyes open as he fumbles with his fingers looking as if for all rights he was tossed into the ocean and can't tell which way is up. After a few hissed breaths, he settles and glances at Erei for a moment, then the mother, then appears to realize that she's standing on his right.

He turns his head towards her and his eyebrows flicker with something she doesn't understand. Surprise? Frustration? Brunnhilde's lips thin and she suddenly realizes how much she doesn't want to be in here.

"What?" Loki's voice is thin.

"I need to speak with you." She says, forcing her gaze to remain on him, unlike the way it would much rather wander away. She clenches her twitching hands at her sides.

"On?" Loki presses.

By the Norns, can't he just agree and they can be done with this?

"Thor sent me." She answers; not really, she volunteered, but what difference does it make? She has no desire to go bubbling out the fact that they're all set for an impending doom in a few days into a  _sickbay._ These people need hope and a  _reason_ to get better. The information she has won't provide that.

Loki's lips thin tightly for a second before he releases out a breath and tilts his head back to the mother. Unlike the clear frustration in his gaze when he looked at  _her,_ when he turns to the mother he's all smiles and laughter. "I apologize Missi; I'll return as soon as I can."

Missi nods her thanks and Loki smiles once more at her before rising to his feet. His heels grind heavily into the floor, looking as if he's trying to keep himself from toppling over face first, and it's not really a pleasant thought.

She buries her shaking fingers next to her legs and attempts to throw the headache into the back of her mind. Loki turns towards her and Brunnhilde thins her lips before turning around and walking towards the exit. Loki's footsteps are quiet as they follow her.

When they've slipped from the stares of the sick-people and out of the room, Brunnhilde doesn't stop. She guides him several more paces down the hallway before turning, then pauses. In the bright, almost painful lights of the medical bay, it's really hard to  _see_ anything, but here, in the dimmer lighting Brunnhilde can make out Loki's features with more ease. Loki looks exhausted. His eyes are rimmed, his hair is a mess, but tucked back into a ponytail that's falling apart. He's wearing the same green shirt and pants since the last time that she saw him, which was Thor's "coronation" several days ago.

Not much of a crowning.

At least, not by Asgardian standards.

Loki's eyes narrow as he stares at her for a second, something flickering in his gaze. He's quiet for a moment longer before wetting his chapped lips and asking, "What was it that my brother wanted?"

That. Right.  _Focus._ Her head is spinning. Round and round and round it goes.

_Stand still._

She digs her fingernails into her palms and the sensation is painful, but offers the settling she wanted.

"The curia regis meeting." Brunnhilde blurts, her mind suddenly connecting the dots between the two of them. She quietly curses her headache and continues before Loki can say something to make her feel worse: "We discussed what needs to happen—how we're going to survive and all that—in an admittedly less than positive point of view, but I'm not one to judge. Summarization: we're running out of food."

They have three more days if they're  _lucky._

Loki's breath escapes him slightly and he presses a hand against his temples, "I know."

"Heimdall said there's a trading post about a day from here. We need money. Thor wants to know if you thought to steal any when you escaped Sakaar." Brunnhilde finishes, then looks at him expectantly. Loki's eyebrows rise with slight surprise.

"Yes, I did," Loki says and Brunnhilde  _feels_  something in her chest release with relief. "Everything I could grab from the Grandmaster's slave fighting," his voice is hollow, "the rest I left for the citizens who still remained."

Wait.  _What?_ Brunnhilde blinks at him, then asks slowly: "You stole the Grandmaster's fortune?" It's nothing to laugh at, she's  _seen_ it. How much of it Loki managed to commandeer, she's uncertain.

Loki looks flustered, "I didn't exactly have time to go running around collecting a beggars income. I took what was  _there_ and left."

Brunnhilde lifts up her hands in defense, "I'm not complaining. I'm actually a little impressed." She admits, if with reluctance. Loki stares at her as if she's grown a fifth limb from her forehead. Brunnhilde ignores it the best she can. "Where is this great stash stored? I need to tell the curia regis about it."

And, if she can, catch a few hours of sleep. Her headache is getting to the point of unbearable again.

"In the lower levels. It's in containers marked as "science equipment", it was the only empty space." Loki explains.

Brunnhilde nods and her stomach flips violently. She barely represses the urge to lean over and heave her insides to an exterior level or release a loud moan of discomfort. She clenches her shaking hands at her sides and forces herself to stay focused.

It's a simple thing, playing messenger,  _why can't she do this?_

Loki's staring at her oddly again.

She hates it when he stares at her.

Why does he have to have one of those stupid stares that can parse a soul apart?

Brunnhilde nods and smacks her lips together, "Right then, I guess I'll be off." She makes a move to step forward, but stops at Loki's question: "Are you ill?"

_Yes._

_Yes. Help me. She can't do this anymore. Her head is pounding, her stomach is spinning and her limbs keep twitching._

_Help me._

_Yes._

_She needs assistance and she can't—_

"No." She says firmly, "I'm not sick, Lackey, I'm  _busy."_ She takes a step forward, but Loki steps in front of her and stares at her face.

"You're pale."

"And you're not?" Brunnhilde hisses.

Loki doesn't mask his irritation, but nonetheless plows forward: "Your hands are shaking, and you have a headache if your continuous squinting is anything to go by."

Great. He's been staring at her. Has  _anyone_  the politeness to avoid gawking at her? " _It isn't your concern."_ She bites. She doesn't want to deal with this. She doesn't have the  _time._ She's finally being useful again and now Loki isn't even letting her do  _that—_

"Valkyrie." Loki's voice is firm, "I am just trying to—"

_Her name is Brunnhilde._

"You're not my bloody mother," she growls, "so get  _off."_ She violently pushes him away from her. Loki staggers several steps, expression suddenly wary. She flexes her fingers in and out and tries to will her feet forward, but they aren't going anywhere productive. Or anywhere  _at all._ Move.  _Move._

Loki's watching her as if he's afraid she's going to hit him, but he isn't tense in a running position.

She forces herself to breathe, if raggedly.

She's not going to hit him, even though she  _really, really_ wants to.

The prince's eyes are wary, and she releases a deep breath through her teeth, then forces herself to meet them. "Lower levels, science equipment," she repeats, looking at him for confirmation. After an initial hesitation, Loki offers it with a curt nod.

Brunnhilde nods and walks away from the dark-haired man, trying her best to quell guilt.

She hasn't found much success by the time she finds the curia regis.

000o000

The last time he can remember his lungs feeling this compressed with anxiety was several years ago. The Avengers had been living together in the tower for almost four months before Clint plopped down beside him one morning, chewing halfheartedly on an apple and said that he needed to get a pilot's license for the Quinjet. He'd stared at the archer for a long moment with disbelief, but nonetheless found himself at the controls a week later, Clint at his side. The panic had arrived when Clint had left him in charge. Driving a car is  _not_ like flying an airplane and he'd spent the entire flight trying not to throw up, crash, or disappoint his teammate when he  _did_ succumb to the inevitable a panic attack.

That panic is not unlike his current.

He has had to learn to control his emotions over the last several years for fear of releasing his other half, and though it has helped in the past, it doesn't take the edge off of his current spiral. The anxiety is pressing against his lungs, squished between his sternum and his collarbones making it impossible to breathe deep enough.

Bruce has never actually slammed someone over the head with a shovel before, but the urge is getting quite tempting. Just grab the handle, tense the muscles and give a good, hard swing to the back of the messy blond locks. Problem solved and he can walk away in peace. Unfortunately, he has his doubts it will do much other than mildly irritate the receiver of his swing; Asgardians are like that.

He's been working in the medical field for over fifteen years now, and has long since come to the realization that patients can be difficult, but when people who you  _know_ are patients, it's even worse.

The Avengers would often bring injuries to him all the time after missions or from stupid stunts. All of them were awful as patients. It was annoying to no end because he just wanted them to  _sit still_ and do nothing, but they wouldn't listen and he'd end up throwing his hands up in the air with frustration and declaring that he's done.

Thor was no different.

And he still isn't.

Bruce only has a basic overview of the ship from what Heimdall told him—and when he briefly got lost looking for his teammate—so his navigation isn't at its best, something he isn't to partial on. When he lived in New York, he knew the streets around the Tower like he does the periodic table of elements; he rarely gets lost. This is different, and it isn't helping anything.

It takes them likely double the amount of time it should have to find their shared sleeping quarters and Bruce struggles for a moment with the keypad that acts as a lock before they can enter. Space is complicated, he has come to realize with growing concern and despair. Space is  _very_ complicated.

The room is small and dark, smelling faintly of dust with a side of burning hair.

It's not exactly pleasant.

Bruce bites back a reflexive gag as Thor stumbles forward and slams his hand along the wall, looking for a light switch of some sort. The room has no windows, and it's pitch black save the steady hall light slowly streaming into the space.

His hand is only met by the cold steal of paint, unable to find anything that feels remotely like a light switch, or a dial-like-thing that Bruce saw on the ship they commandeered from Sakaar on their way to Asgard. He bites back slight embarrassment and tugs the long sleeves of his borrowed clothing over his fingers. "Ah, Thor," he questions, trying to catch the Asgardian's attention.

After a second, Thor looks back at him expectantly. Bruce gestures vaguely towards the wall, "Is there a light in here or…?" He trails off awkwardly. Thor's head flicks to the ceiling and Bruce follows his gaze. A bulb. Thor is looking for a bulb.  _Of course._ He should have done that first,  _idiot._

"No," Thor says after a second, "no, I don't think so."

Great.

Bruce sighs and steps out of the doorway, spotting a faintly glowing ring he assumes opens the door from this side. The small space doesn't look as if anyone has stepped foot in it, which isn't a great sign. They've been here for three (four?) days now, and  _four_ people, including himself, are supposed to share this. Have  _none_ of them have been in here since the  _Statesmen_ left Asgard?

Bruce flicks his gaze across the space once more. After a second or so, he spots the silhouette of bedding piled on the floor. Blankets and a few small pillows. It isn't much, admittedly, but he's grateful there's even  _that._ They could have less. Bruce has slept on less before.

He sighs under his breath and shifts forward, "You should sleep." He says to his teammate. Thor looks back at him for a second, expression thinned.

"But I have to—"

Bruce lifts up a hand, then gestures to the bedding with his other. "It wasn't a request." Thor hesitates and Bruce shakes his head. What he would give for something to knock him unconscious. "Thor," he says gently, "please. You're sick."

"My father—" Thor tries again, but Bruce grabs his shoulder and steers him towards the bedding, kneeling down to grab one of the blankets. He spreads it out and shoves Thor towards the ground with little effort, a true sign of how exhausted the blond must be. Thor's tense muscles release and Bruce swings the blanket from off of his shoulders, handing it to the Asgardian.

"I wish we had access to Stark Medical," Bruce admits, "I could be more helpful."

Thor looks up at him and Bruce can't help when his gaze lingers on Thor's missing eye. He has no idea how it happened, or  _when_  beyond the fact that it was somewhere in the Bifrost battle. He has seen Thor walk away from explosions and only had the edge of his cape mildly charred, and something took his  _eye._

It rouses a protective frustration in him, and Hulk.

"You've done enough," Thor assures, his tone is quieter. "Valkyrie nearly took my head off when she learned. Thank you for not doing that."

He's seen enough hidden injuries between his teammates he is, unfortunately, used to it.

Bruce nods, "Of course, I'll leave so you can sleep." The words " _tell Jarvis if you need something"_ are on the edge of his tongue, but he swallows them with effort. He is not at Avengers Tower anymore, and Jarvis is dead. Habit. He's spent too much time in Stark Medical.

Bruce lingers for a moment longer before quietly exiting the room, leaving Thor alone in the pitch-black space.

He egresses into the hall and turns to the left, intent on finding food. Heimdall's conversation had been brief, but thoroughly detailed; the Asgardian is clearly experienced with giving only the necessities. A ration is wrapped around food, but he doesn't care. He'll eat anything they can give him. His stomach is twisting aggressively with pain. It's what happens after a Hulk-out: he typically sleeps for ten or more hours straight, consumes half a fridge, then feels uncomfortably tight in his skin for days to follow.

He hasn't had the opportunity to sleep yet, so he can feel his bodies' sluggishness, and the growing discomfort with his skin is prominent. Anxiety is poking through these with a hot rod and throwing it to the side as if it doesn't matter. He hates this. He knows  _one_ person on this ship personally, and there's only a handful he knows  _of_ , but one of them attempted his murder, the other  _Hulk_ knows, and Heimdall is someone that Thor has spoken of briefly.

Thor doesn't talk about Asgard.

At least, he didn't when Bruce lived with them, things could have changed over the time he was missing. Whenever anyone would bring up the subject, he would clamp and direct the conversation so off of the topic with ease it wasn't hard to see the regal training slipping through. He was more than happy to detail about other Realms, just never launch into such excitement when Asgard was addressed.

There's also the fact that he's been away from Earth for  _years._ Tony, if Steve doesn't beat him to it, is going to tear his head from his shoulders with frustration when they arrive. However long that takes. He has no idea how many light years away Asgard is from Earth, he didn't think to ask. They could be in this small ship with it's recycled air and stale taste of despair for  _years._

And the thought horrifies him.

Bruce hates being in a cage; captivity makes him anxious (and Hulk thrives on such emotions). A cage is still a cage no matter how big it is. The  _Statesmen_ is supposed to be their salvation, but it doesn't feel like that. Not to him.

He is very alone here.

Bruce sighs through his teeth and plows forward through the quiet hallway. Despite his initial trouble with finding the sleeping quarters, he reaches the main deck with minimal difficulty. People are scattered across the room in small gatherings, talking quietly or sleeping and Bruce is fairly certain he can see an attempt at school going on in a corner.

He has no idea where to go from here. He can't spot any familiar faces, and he digs his fingernails into the edges of his sleeves sharply at it. People are staring, and he wishes they would stop. He takes a few steps forward and scans across the room, looking for a space to hunker so he can watch what others are doing before attempting to mimic them.

He could just  _ask,_ but he doesn't want to intrude.

Or seem stupid.

When he finds a place to settle, he's left alone. The Asgardian's watch him from afar, but no one makes any attempts to speak with him. This is fine. Bruce doesn't want to talk with anyone anyway. He's not even sure what he would say—sense Thor has been meager with details on Asgard, he's pretty helpless as to their culture differences. He could say something offensive without meaning to or accidentally declare war on something or—yeah, he's grateful they aren't trying to talk with him.

Bruce remains here for a while, long enough that the Asgardians stop staring and return to their normal tasks, seeming to ignore his existence completely. Bruce begins to daze slightly, flexing his fingers in and out as he tries to quell the discomfort of his stretched skin. It's thin and uncomfortable, nothing unusual, all it lacks is the typical burning heat the follows. He's not disappointed at it's absence.

A figure is in front of him, suddenly, and Bruce whips his head up, startled. Hulk buzzes in the back of his mind, drawing more present at his discomfort.

In front of him is Loki, green eyes sharp and calculating as he plays with some sort of writing utensil between his left hand's fingers. Bruce never heard him approach, and neither did Hulk, who is now wary and quietly murmuring in the back of his mind.  _Shh._

Bruce swallows and tries to bury his disconcertment, but he doesn't have much success. Loki's eyes are shadowed and his clothing is rumbled, but he looks far healthier than Bruce remembers him being on Earth. Still, though, Bruce doesn't want to get tugged into some sort of murder-plot, or be a victim, so he leans back as far as he's able along the wall, trying to bury his unease. Judging from Loki's expression, he isn't very successful.

Loki watches him for another moment, then sighs briskly. "What are you doing?"

Bruce stares at him. Hiding, admittedly, but he doesn't exactly want to go blurting that out to  _Loki._ "I...um…" Bruce stutters, drawing his hands closer to his torso. "It's…"  _What is it?_ What is he trying to  _say?_ "Thor is sleeping," he ejaculates, "and I didn't want to bother him, but I didn't know where else to go and…" he trails, trying to scramble enough words together to finish the sentence properly. Nothing is coming to mind. "Yeah." He concludes, mentally wincing.

Loki's shoulders relax a slight amount, but it might just have been him shifting his position. Bruce isn't sure, Loki is not an open person with his body language and his face is an empty sheet of paper, this is unlike the Avengers were. Even Natasha and Clint were easier to read, to an extent, after Bruce got to know them better. His stomach gives a painful tug at the reminder of his team and he forces it to the side.

"You're hiding." Loki states plainly, sweeping up Bruce's jumbled sentences into something unambiguous.

Bruce tenses at the words and rubs at the back of his neck. "Um…"

"Don't bother with excuses," Loki says before Bruce can come up with any probable ones, "your face says everything."

Bruce thins his lips and tries to clear his expression, but the most he does is make his eyebrows join across his brow, furthering his anxiety into being obvious. Ugh.

Loki gives a slight shake of his head, and Bruce snaps his jaw shut before staring up at Loki's face when he commands: "Move; you're atop the water jugs."

What?

Since when?

Bruce flicks his gaze down to the crate he's perched on, then quickly scrambles to his feet, embarrassed. _Ah man_. He's been here for  _hours_  and no one mentioned to him that... _great._ He is helpless when it comes to these matters, and it makes him want to smack his forehead against something very hard. Everything is scribbled out in Asgardian text; he had  _no idea_ what it said. He wouldn't have taken up that as a hiding place if he knew and—

The Asgardians were staring at him.

Not because he's  _him,_ but because he unintentionally blocked supply to their water.

_Perfect._

Bruce is fairly certain that his face is tinged so he ducks his head, but Loki isn't looking at him anymore. As soon as Bruce shifted, Loki moves to pull the lid off of gray container. There's a level of tightness in Loki's movements, but he grabs one of the small water-bottle looking things from within the confines of the space, then firmly presses down on the lid to the large crate. It clicks into place a moment later.

Loki turns to him and Bruce averts his gaze, but he can still feel the stare.

"You look ill." He says thinly, after a moment. Bruce whips his head up towards the dark-haired Asgardian for a second, flabbergasted. Did Loki just inquire about his  _health?_

"What?" Bruce questions in surprise, then runs the words around his head again, "I'm not sick."

Loki's hand draws back and his eyebrows lift slightly, "You are dehydrated at least."

And he knows this  _how?_

Bruce's lips draw together thinly and Loki releases a quiet breath along with a stream of words in his native tongue before shoving the water bottle towards his chest. Bruce takes it on instinct to keep it from clattering against the ground and makes a noise of protest, "I can't take from this—" He starts to argue, but Loki is already digging another from the container and shoots him a look.  _Bruce isn't_ _Asgardian. It's not his to have._

"Take it. Everyone is given one per day. I'm assuming you haven't found the food, yet, yes?" He questions and spins his fingers over the top of the second water bottle. It vanishes from view and Bruce nearly drops the water bottle with surprise. He  _knows_ that magic exists, he lived with a man who wielded lightning from a  _hammer_ for years, but that was just normal. This...isn't. He's never seen a portray of sorcery like this. It seems so fluid, easy, and natural.

He wants to understand it, but he has no desire to prod.

Loki stands in front of him stiffly, a thin silver package between his fingers that's outstretched to him. Bruce pauses, then looks up at him with slight surprise. Loki's expression is clear of anything helpful, and Bruce hesitates before reaching his hand forward to take the package from him.

Loki's expression clouds with minor irritation. "I've done nothing to it," he assures, "if I wanted you dead, Bruce, you  _would_  be."

This doesn't instill him with any confidence.

Hulk rumbles quietly in the back of his mind, offering Loki a warning.

Bruce grips the package tightly and gives a slight nod, "Yeah, um, thanks."

Loki nods and gyrates, before pausing to look back at him, "You're a healer, yes?"

On a technical term, no, he isn't. He was nearly finished with his training to become a trauma surgeon while getting a degree in general medics when his professor recommended him to a scientific course. He took up gamma radiation a few months later and didn't look back. So no, he doesn't have an "official" degree in medicine, but he has practiced it enough recently—but it's  _not_ recently because it's been  _two years—_ that he feels fairly confident in his abilities.

Bruce shifts his feet, "Um, sort of, I don't have an official paper or anything, but, yeah."

Loki eyes him for a second, "If you could offer aid in the medical bay it wouldn't be unwelcomed, the other healers are exhausted."

Loki looks that way to, but Bruce doesn't say as much.

"I don't know much about Asgardian psychology." Bruce admits, "Thor never really needed me to put him back together." Thor has had as many scrapes, bruises, and broken bones as the rest of him, but he's always healed quickly and Bruce has never had to worry extensively over him.

Loki's lips thin tightly, "Yes, well, we aren't asking you to perform surgery." Loki hesitates on the last word as if not familiar with it. "If you could spare at least spare moment," he avers, then tilts his head forward again and promptly walks back towards the crowd.

They part for him silently, though Bruce can see a number of lingering stares. Some look soft while others are hard.

Bruce knows enough from Thor's half hearted ramblings of complaint in Stark Medical to know that Asgardian healing is based mostly off of magic. He doesn't have any; Loki must know this. Why wouldn't he? Nonetheless, he requested Bruce's help.

Why is Bruce stopping?

He  _can_ help with this.

He's a doctor.

 _There's a twist in his chest, a ache in his stomach, and he doesn't understand why—_ He needs to offer aid in order to be useful here, and the medical side of things might be the only one he can  _do_ anything with.

Bruce lingers for a second longer before he readjusts his grip on the foodstuffs and quickly takes off after the dark-haired Asgardian.


	14. What More Could I Lose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Haha, so I'm digging through old work I've written over the last few years and came across this painful gem. :) I can't remember when I officially finished it, but I'm guessing that it was in May or June of 2018, so yep. Anyway.
> 
> One of the things that really bothered me about Thor: Ragnarok was how carelessly they handled Jane and Thor's relationship. I shipped (and still ship) them hard and it really made Frigga's sacrifice almost meaningless. I just look at Jane and Thor in the first two movies and I honestly can't see them not try to maintain their relationship or Thor not take her with him.So this is sort of an exploration of what the heck happened to Darcy, Jane, and Erik between the Dark World and Infinity War. And Thor feels, you're welcome. :)
> 
> Pairings: Thor/Jane.
> 
> Rated for: Minor violence, heavy themes. No slash, no smut, no incest, no non-con, language is all K.
> 
> Characters: Thor, Jane, Darcy, Dr. Selvig, other Asgardians (mentioned), Rocket
> 
> Written: 2018 some time.
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

What More Could I Lose?

"And what if you're wrong?" Rocket's voice pierces through Thor's thoughts sharply and he stares at the small creature for a moment, his thoughts skidding to a halt. Frigga's dead body crashes through his head, holding Loki's dying body and his corpse, watching Odin's dust fade, Heimdall's pain filled groan, Loki's soft voice confirming to him that the Warriors Three are indeed dead, Valkyrie standing in front of Heimdall to take the worst of a stab and her lifeless corpse falling to the ground.

Pain.

Hurt.

Anguish.

Jane had died with their unborn child.

Their marriage had not been public, it didn't have the propaganda of an Asgardian wedding it didn't have thousands of guests, visitors from other Realms or even Thor's closest friends. Tony knew, because Jane's projects were funded by him and her walking around with her engagement ring had been fairly obvious. Tony had demanded answers with a twinkle in his eye and Thor had had to give them.

Tony was happy for them and offered to assist in any way he could; Thor and Jane only begged for his silence on the manner. Though he was slightly surprised, Tony didn't argue.

They kept it quiet to not have interference from Asgard.

Thor, when he was younger, had imagined his wedding to be a large party with his closest friends at his side, his beautiful wife (of which Jane had exceeded all imagination) at his right, his parents behind him, happy at his choice of companion and Loki, his brother and best man on his left. It would be a joyous occasion, more so than his coronation.

(It had never happened and his coronation had ended both bitterly and ugly).

Thor had dodged political weddings for almost two hundred years from his father, insisting that when he was married it would be because he was in love (he didn't care, not then, he just didn't want a woman to tie him to Asgard. He wanted to be free and she would restrict him) and nothing else. He had been in love with Jane,  _his_ Jane,  _deeply._

She was a queen among all woman, and one he was honored and humbled would accept him as a husband.

He imagined that his and his wife's wedding would be the talk for decades the joyous occasion so intense that people  _couldn't_  stop speaking about it. The party would be wonderful and last for days. Loki would likely play a trick on them, simply because that was what he  _does_ and Frigga would insist that the wedding wasn't ready even though every detail was perfect; Odin would approve of his choice and all would be well.

Instead, Loki is dead, his mother is gone and his father would soon banish him until Jane is rotting six feet under before he returns. Sif is missing and the thought of having the Warriors Three at his wedding oddly sickens him. They are different that he remembers before he was banished, they are vile,  _cruel._ They do not learn the truth of Loki's heritage, only Sif does. The Allfather does not make the knowledge public; the second prince died in dishonour once, then redeemed himself when he died for Thor. How backwards it was, because both times Loki had died  _because_ of Thor.

He tries to enjoy their company, but when he returns from Midgard after the battle of New York he cannot  _stand_ their arrogance, he distances himself, trying to  _think outside of their suffocation_ and then the Dark Elves happens and he has to resort to their assistance once more.

His wedding was a secret, it was quiet and no one talked of it. It is a quiet affair, Jane is beautiful, Darcy is her bridesmaid (unhappy at wearing the "big poofy dress that makes me feel like a large coconut covered marshmallow", but she takes dozens of pictures from her Stark-phone (Tony had taken one look at her phone well they were planning the wedding a look of disgust on his face before the next day a package had arrived for Darcy, a sticky note plastered on top reading: " _An upgrade, because you sorely need one, Ms. Lewis))_ and Tony is his best man. Pepper and Tony come, but Tony is the only Avenger to attend the wedding, because he is the only Avenger who  _knows about it._

(The guilt lessons, later, when he learns about Clint's family; he isn't the only person keeping large secrets like that). There is ten people total (including the staff), but Thor is happy, Jane is happy and they are married, content and joyful.

Nothing could be better than that moment. Thor will outlive her, they both know this, but he will enjoy the years he has with her. They both will.

They pass the mark of Frigga's death, then Loki's a week later. It is hard and painful, but Jane will grip his hand when his expression wanders, or she will shove a poptart in his direction and he will smile towards her fondly before they will proceed with their day. It is a blessing for her to be present in his life. How difficult it is to imagine having never known her, if it had just been a mere hundred years from now they wouldn't have even been aware of each other's presence.

They're married for nine months when Tony contacts him about the scepter and Ultron happens, he returns battered and tired (no longer the only secretly married Avenger) and the startling news as Jane throws her arms around him with joy that Jane is pregnant.

He is as thrilled as she is.

Fatherhood was something he ever thought of himself, (he'd barely thought about parenthood in his lifetime before (save when Frigga was pestering him about the fact that she needs "grandbabies, Thor,  _grandbabies!"_ and he and Loki would share a look of disgust), but with Jane he doesn't feel nervous, just excited and assured that she will be a wonderful mother.

They often speak of their child the next few months, debates on what gender they believe the child to be (Erik is sure it will be a female, but Darcy is set in stone about a son, Jane is hoping for a daughter, but Thor has no preference). He and Jane shift to a larger apartment, one with three bedrooms instead of the two (because Darcy lives with them, sister to Jane (if not by blood) and the thought of kicking her out makes both Thor and Jane recoil).

Thor knows he needs to search for the Infinity Stones, to figure out  _why_ their suddenly popping out of nothingness into sight again, the strange oddity that it is. He doesn't understand, but needs to, because this is likely not a good sign. He doesn't want to leave Jane right now, in this excitement, he knows that his quest could take months, perhaps even years to finish his search for knowledge.

So he waits, convincing himself to leave after their child is born.

Jane hits seventeen weeks and they learn that their child is a male. Jane is overjoyed, all her hopes for a daughter thrown out the window as she learns of their small little boy. They share it with Darcy who proudly proclaims she can predict the future and that they should only eat blue food for a week. Erik is disappointed it's not a female, but he is thrilled at the prospect of a grandson.

They do indeed eat blue food for a week.

Jane begins to carry a notebook around, scribbling names down whenever she thinks of one for their son and encouraging Thor to do the same. He has few ideas, but Jane's list grows progressively longer and she resorts to throwing the notebook in frustration because they "can't give their son one hundred and twenty-six different middle names!" (and she can't drop any of the names, either).

Darcy picks the notebook off the floor, flips through it her expression clouded with thought before she points down at a name declaring their son's name is Morgan; Jane is startlingly okay with this and Thor is as well.

He and Darcy paint Morgan's room a light blue, Jane sitting on the couch (forced by both himself and Darcy to not assisting) with Erik, who has become the unofficial grandfather on Jane's side in their small family.

At twenty-two weeks, Thor helps Natasha and Steve with a small mission to take out a stream of Hydra bases (which turns out to be more than they originally thought) and he comes home to a sobbing Darcy on the couch, clutching a framed photo. As he takes her into his arms, confused, but not disregarding the feelings of the girl he has come to see as a little sister, he learns with a deep punch of horror that Jane was hit by a car on her way back from a doctor's appointment and killed instantly.

Jane is gone.

Jane is…

Jane, his love, his wife... _gone_ and he was not even there when it happened.

Darcy slips Jane's wedding ring into his hand before burying herself against him and they cry together. The funeral is held, but there aren't many in attendance, Jane's parents died when she was sixteen (she was never adopted, just shuffled through foster-care until she was eighteen) and no one in Thor's family will come. (Because his mother and Loki are  _dead_ and Odin never cared for Jane).

He finds Midgard's acts of burying their dead slightly repulsive, but he doesn't comment because he knows that it is tradition here and he doesn't want to break it.

Then Jane's coffin is lowered, taking his wife and his child with it.

He will never get to hold his child in his arms or Jane, again. He will never even know what Morgan  _looks_ like, will never get to show him to his father or anyone else.

He returned home with Darcy and they both grieved in an ugly silence that lasted for days. The rain fell hard and Darcy's eyes grew more haunted and finally Thor left the building in frustration (an act he will forever regret) and wandered the streets of London in an effort to clear his mind. He manages to clear some of the fog and buys a chain to put his and Jane's wedding rings around before stuffing it under his shirt.

When he returns to the apartment, Darcy is laying on the kitchen floor, gun in her right hand, blood leaking from her head. The grief from losing her sister was to much for her to handle and Thor, once again, couldn't be there for the most important women in his life. Not his wife, his mother or his surrogate sister. Now all that has to happen is for Natasha to kill over and die then Sif to follow and every female he truly cares for will be gone.

The loss from both his "daughters" snaps the last line of mental sanity in Erik, and he is admitted to a mental health facility. Thor is not allowed to visit, no matter how much he pushes.

It was just easier to deal with the grief, in the long run, to tell people that he and Jane had simply broken up. They were no longer courting (they hadn't for a year and three plus months now they were  _married)_ and no, he had no idea that she'd passed on, how terrible!

He felt numb.

He felt empty.

He didn't want to return to Asgard, where no one would understand his ache, where memories of Loki and Frigga would plague him and he would have to start grieving all over again. Asgard didn't know about his marriage, his child or the woman he had come to see as a sister and the man a strange sort of uncle. He just wanted to be held by Frigga. Wrapped in her arms where he could pretend it didn't hurt so much.

It did.

Oh how it did.

He wanted to be in Loki's presence, not talk to him, not really no, but just know that his younger brother was there and  _alive._ The quiet rustling of turning pages and the shing as Thor sharpened a weapon.

Them. Together. Where they could both sit quietly in their broken worlds.

But Loki was dead and so was Jane.

Jane, his beautiful angel, was gone.

His love, his peace, his. Gone. When he wakes up gasping from a nightmare, his hand clenching for Jane's that's no longer there, the grief swallows him. So instead, he imagines how Frigga would have spoiled their son, how she would have given him all of Asgard if simply to appease him. She would have been overjoyed at the birth of her grandson.

He imagines the Allfather is pleased at the birth, that he too, loves the child. Thor imagines as he holds the baby for the first time in his arms awkwardly manhandling him before Frigga would laugh and scoop the child up with the gentleness of a cat looking after her kits would then rock the child.

He knows Fandral would have refused to hold him (a long standing feud between being thrown up on by young people after his younger brother expelled his stomach's contents on him in public), that Volstagg would have been thrilled, a small smile spread across Hogan's face and Sif...Sif would have given a squeal and demanded to hold him. Sif has always had a sore spot for babies, not children, babies.

He imagines that the Avengers are not so sorley split, that the closeness that they carry when they meet is constant, and that they, too, are happy to see Morgan. He can see Tony's look of confusion as the child is placed in his arms, Clint's calmness, Natasha's ease, Steve's hesitation, and Bruce's carefulness (but Bruce has been missing for over five months now, and no one has any idea where he is).

He thinks sometimes, about how Loki would have handled his son. Sometimes Loki refuses, in others he holds the babe with disgust, but the most firm illusion he creates is the one where Loki takes the child from his arms with hesitation glancing at him as if asking "am I doing it right, Thor?" and still feeling out of place. But Loki would hold his son and Darcy would lift her phone taking pictures with a smirk on her face and everything would be perfect. There with him, Jane his child, Loki and Darcy all around or on the sofa as they watch some sort of detective show by BBC (or anything, Thor doesn't care, they'd be together and happy, and safe).

Thor will never know what his son looks like.

He couldn't save Jane. He cannot even avenge her. She is dead.

So yes, he lied, they broke up, he had no idea she was dead, how could he? They hadn't seen each other in forever. Midgard became to much, so he left. He returned to the library on Asgard and found everything he could on the Infinity Stones, (it hurt, because Loki's messily loopy handwriting was on the edges of a few pages with notes) then left to find what he could.

Ragnarok happened. He will not lie that after they were not in the public square of Asgard, Thor punched Loki in the face screaming, " _How could you do this to me, again!"._ Loki did not  _understand_ how much it hurt to lose a family member, he did not  _understand_ how deep the ache for death to lose it's grasp was. Loki had merely stood up, gritted his bruising jaw and stared at him for a long moment with haunted green eyes before they left for New York.

Thor has come to love Midgard as an extension of Asgard, but their ignorance and ability to believe falsehoods is ridiculous. When those two girls had asked for a picture, then left their careless remark, " _it's a shame Jane dumped you"_ he had wanted to throw something at the back of their heads.

" _It was a mutual dumping"_ he had said towards their backs, because she left  _him_ for death and he left her because he was still alive.

_This day, the next, a hundred years; it's nothing, it's a heartbeat. You'll never be ready._

He wonders if Loki even realizes how deeply true those words are.

Odin had died, the last bit of normality he had  _had_ and he wanted something to throttle, something to  _fix_ all that was going wrong, because it had been nothing but ugly for years now and  _Loki_ had shoved Odin there.

Then Hela had came, declaring her lineage, her  _sister-_ hood and Thor had switched his " _I'm going to throttle a sibling"_ from Loki to  _her_ because only Darcy was worthy of the title "Thor's sister" and this  _woman_ would never be that.

He gained his brother back in exchange for his sister's life. He wishes it could have ended differently, that Hela had  _not_ gone crazy with rage (and it frightens him, immensely, because he realizes that Loki could have turned into that. (Loki's rage wasn't as vile, as  _cruel))_ and that they could have reconciled, but they didn't, and he had let Surter go.

Having Loki back at his side helps. It helps  _immensely._ He didn't realize how much he'd come to rely on his brother until Loki was no longer  _there_ to keep him standing upright. They are two parts of one half and neither can survive without the other. They have each other, and that's enough.

Asgard is lost, but it's people still stand, alive and well.

For the total of about a week.

Thanos tears into their hull his "children" ripping apart everything and there is only a handful of warriors left from the skirmish with Ragnarok and they put up a fight, but they lose.

Then it is only him, a battered, bruised and injured Loki, a vengeful, but defeated Hulk and a gatekeeper, with too much blood loss to stand among the dead he has fallen with.

" _I assure you brother, the sun will shine on us again."_

And then it is only him. Only Thor. The last Asgardian to live; and as he drags his broken body towards Loki's, his mind screaming " _protect!"_ and " _loss!"_ as he wraps his hand around Loki and buries his head into his younger sibling's chest, weeping. Loki was too young to die (barley near a thousand and a century) he's not  _supposed_ to die, that's Thor's job. He's supposed to protect him. His baby brother, who is gone, just like Jane, just like Frigga, and Odin, Heimdall, Valkyrie and his entire kingdom.

A king with only failure to reign over.

He can't protect his family, or his kingdom or his friends, but he is going to avenge them.

"Well if I'm wrong…" Thor's voice cracks, but he forces it to remain steady for another moment. His hands pressing together firmly, but he can still feel the rough fabric of Loki's armor and the chill of his skin underneath his fingers as Loki's skin changes from it's Asgardian illusion to it's Jotunn and this is why Thor is  _sure,_ why he is positive, that Loki is-

Loki is-

Dead.

Like Mother. Like Father. Jane. Darcy. Everyone.

He hasn't seen the Avengers in two years, but he knows of the Civil War for the brief time he and Loki spent on Midgard. They are fractured, not dead, but fractured and he was not there to stop it. He is only a man of " _I was pretty close, but just missed it!"._ He should have been there to do  _something_  to stop his family from tearing itself apart. But he didn't. So with a defeated stare from his single eye, Thor turns to the rabbit and a bitter frown plays on his face, "What more can I lose?"


	15. Stars Shine Brightest Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I've always wanted to, and failed, to create a teenage Avengers fic, and this the mess that it turned into.
> 
> Characters: Phil, Fury, Natasha
> 
> Warnings: Some gore
> 
> Written: 2017 some time. :)
> 
> Note: Not checked for spelling or grammar!

 

* * *

Phil lets out a slow breath trying to remind himself, desperately, that giving the agent in front of him a throttle (no matter how appealing) won't solve anything. New recruits usually don't bother him, he loves to play with their minds and make them  _think_  they're winning when he's already won the war; but man, this particular agent is driving him  _insane._

His arrogance, cockiness and all around stupidity is going to get him killed and no matter how much Phil tries to patiently explain that to the man, it's hopeless. Phil wants to grab at his short hair and give a firm pull then pull on them some more because he honestly  _cannot take it anymore._

The man seems to think that he knows literally everything and people should bow down and kiss his feet then stare in awe at his perfectly gelled hair. Agent Tyson Green, twenty eight, dark hair, obnoxiously blue eyes and excellent hacking skills. Managed through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most secure files and yes, well impressive, didn't do wonders for the agent's around Green. His ego, however, is very happy.

Phil is a man who attempts to think the best of people at a first glance (with few exceptions), but this man, has tested, snapped, and laughed on the grave of his patience. Does Tyson even  _realize_ how obnoxious it is to boast that he, and he alone managed through all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most secure files? In a mission of life or death when a bullet may change the course of everything telling everyone how amazing he is at hacking won't do anything. Unless Tyson plans on driving everyone  _crazy_ by simply  _not shutting his trap_.

Does he even have a silent mode? Stealth must be nigh impossible for this man because you have to be  _quiet_  well doing it. It's ridiculous, Phil's going to lose his mind before he gets a new group of people to work with. Why did he agree to this? Everyone told him this group is impossible but he doubted and snorted then said that he can beat them into shape. Oh, the arrogance. Note to self: listen to fellow trainers.

Phil closes his eyes softly and pinches the bridge of his nose as Tyson continues to talk. He's been... _firmly_ saying that he's prepared for the next level on the S.H.I.E.L.D.'s training base and explaining why he's the man for the next mission. It's not a surprise to Phil that Tyson knows  _about_  the mission; he is, as Tyson keeps reminding them all "the best hacker S.H.I.E.L.D. has" it's just that Tyson isn't ready for the level that the mission is. Fury's been carefully selecting people for months after Maria dropped her undercover act to report to him.

Something about pirating trade of leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons that needs to be shut down immediately. Phil hasn't been requested on the team yet, but he's slightly expecting it. He will not, however, go with Tyson. He's trying really,  _really_  hard to not lose his stoic, calm, and patient outward demeanor but he's pretty sure that Tyson hasn't done anything harder than deciding what to have for breakfast yet.

He's really  _not_  ready for this type of mission and Phil isn't quite sure how to tell him. Phil releases his nose from the death grip he has on it and slowly peels his eyelids apart to stare at the man who is incapable of shutting up in front of him.

Tyson is talking with a no-nonsense tone, though Phil admittedly isn't trying  _to_  hard to understand what he's saying, more trying to figure out how it is that Tyson actually managed to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s data banks. He's smart, insanely smart but there's a level of annoying that Phil can stand and Tyson...Tyson has rocketed above it.

"...All I'm saying is that, with my level of experience in the computer, I would be perfect for the mission, Coulson. I could track the hacker's with my hands tied behind my back. You have to let me go, let me prove myself to Fury that I'm ready for a higher form of missions. These stupid training exercises are getting me nowhere, I have to be out on the field and-"

Phil's calm expression finally snaps and he raises an eyebrow. Tyson, who's been staring at his face unbreakably and talking for the last seven minutes-not pausing for breath comes to a slow halt. Ah, silence. Phil remembers it well. It's a truly beautiful thing. He should take moments out of every day just to appreciate the beauty of  _quiet._

"Sir?" Tyson asks, slightly hesitantly.

Phil folds his arms across his chest and lets out a breath before answering the man, "Agent Green, I understand your desperation to get out on the mission field but going with this reckless desire to prove yourself will only get you killed."

"But-" Tyson protests his eyebrows raising in distress so much they almost launch off of his face.

"Tyson," Phil says. The word comes out slightly harsher than he intended but the man silences. "You haven't even passed the training exercises for your level yet. They're there for a reason, you have to be prepared for what these things will throw at you. It's not like training, alright? The bad guys don't stop if you get hurt and you're not ready for a field mission." Phil rests a hand on Tyson's shoulder, "You're smart, Tyson, we all know that," a little  _too_  well, "and I know that you want to prove yourself to Fury. I can't, however, let you go on this mission without you being prepared for what might happen. Alright? Do you understand?"

Tyson's shoulder's slump and he releases a heavy breath. "Yes, Sir."

"Good." Phil says and releases the man's shoulder.

Tyson looks up at him, "But sir, I really think that if I could just  _try-"_

"Agent Green, I said no." Phil interrupts, "You want confirmation? Talk to Fury."

Tyson looks at him like he might argue and for a total of three seconds Phil is almost one hundred percent sure that he's going to punch him but Tyson unclenches his fists and raises his head. "You'll see that I'm ready someday-and you'll regret holding me back." The agent storms down the hall and into a room and though Phil have expects him to childishly slam the door, he doesn't.

Heaving a sigh, Phil shakes his head back and forth staring at the empty hallway resisting the urge to smack his head against the wall. "I seriously doubt it." He mumbles to himself. Why are Level Two agents so impulsively stupid?  _Every. Time._  Those are the ones that are the most trouble; One is cautious, careful and memorizes almost everything and can recite it back to you perfectly, three is when they start sending them out onto the field and they mature greatly but Two? Two is when they get cocky, think they're ready for everything and anything and most try to force themselves onto missions. Needless to say, it doesn't end well.

"I wonder if he realizes that my office is the other direction." Phil spins around hand flying to his gun in surprise at the voice. How he'd missed the steps are beyond him, he's just so frustrated with Tyson that he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings and now-oh. It's just Fury. Even if he  _had_  been paying attention he probably wouldn't have heard him.

Phil lets out a soft groan and shoves his gun back into it's holster. "Who knows? Sometimes I wonder."

Fury smirks, "That Green? I've heard a lot about him from his superiors."

Phil face palms, "I doubt their words even come close." He's not sure whether to scream in frustration or follow after Tyson to make sure that he doesn't actually manage to get himself aboard the mission. If Tyson is skilled in one thing beyond hacking it's driving people to their knees in frustration. The man just hits a  _nerve._

"You here with a mission, Sir?" Coulson asks having to put far more effort into keeping his voice level than normal. He's been expecting it, Fury usually pulls him in on the more difficult missions. He's been called his "good eye" quite a few times and Phil is admittedly proud of it. However, Green will never  _shut up_ about the fact that he went on the mission and could have kept an eye on him.

"Yes," Fury says and Phil turns to look at the director keeping eye contact with him. Fury puts a hand on Phil's shoulder, "I want you to take a few days off."

Phil struggles to keep his jaw from falling. This isn't what he expected. He's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, running mission after mission without breaks is sort of part of the job description. He's taken days off, yeah, but usually only after he was severely injured and  _had_ to. He doesn't just...take breaks. He hasn't since he was a Level Four or something. It's been  _years._ "Sir, I'm not sure that I-" Phil starts to protest but Fury gives him the  _look._ It amazes him, sometimes, that the director can literally say things with his eyebrows. He's had full conversations with them. Currently it's a shut-up-and-stop-talking look.

"I know you've been working hard recently, Coulson. You're wearing yourself thin. From the looks of it, you might've tasered Green." Fury says and Phil pales slightly.

"You saw the whole thing?"

"No," Fury admits and Phil can't stop the small rush of relief that crashes through him. "But I saw enough. Just three days, alright? I'll call you if I need you to come in but go watch movies for seventy two hours or something." Fury commands.

Phil wants to protest, childishly stomp his feet and yell that he wants to come on the mission but he doesn't. "Yes, Sir. But what about Maria's mission? I can take the break after."

"I'm going in." Fury says and Phil bites his lip. It's  _really_ serious then, Fury goes on missions, but only when he needs to. He typically guides everyone to where they need to go and watches from the background like a one-eyed, deadly shadow. Maybe he should just sneak aboard the craft, they might need him. He can't sit and do  _nothing_ well they all risk their lives.

"I know what you're thinking, Coulson and  _no,_ you aren't coming." Fury says and Phil runs a hand through his hair.

"I can't just sit and do  _nothing."_ Phil argues.

"You can, and you will. Now go, I don't want to see your face until Friday." Fury commands and Phil frowns before giving a sigh of defeat. Turning, Phil schools his frustrated expression before walking forward. Fine, Fury can ban him from this mission but the next one he's coming even if he has to strap himself to the bottom of the jet the whole journey there.  
Phil walks through the base and apparently did a bad job at keeping his face blank because people all but  _leap_ out his way looking terrified. Phil doesn't really focus on them, more so on getting  _out_ because he just wants to get to his apartment and throw something. He  _knows_ that Fury's doing this to help him, let him catch his breath after running a long race but it just makes him angry. He's perfectly capable of helping just as much as the next one. He suddenly realizes exactly how Green feels.

But unlike Tyson, he  _can_ help. But he isn't allowed to. Ugh!

Phil finally leaves his thoughts enough to focus on something other than the fact that he feels utterly  _useless_ and can't do  _anything_ about it when he steps into the streets of New York. The buildings are rising around him, glowing like phantom mirrors; cars are passing like colorful wind and the air smells like pollution and dirt.

Phil moves forward shoving his hands into his pockets shifting his fingers around the devices within. A handful of weapons, a few trackers and a phone. It's somewhere near eight probably closer to nine PM and he's subconsciously aware that he's at risk of getting mugged. He'd love to see them try though.

Phil grits his teeth and walks for somewhere near and hour before he can see the apartment building. It looks like a pile of rocks bonded together and had hideous children. An ugly shade of red with a yellow border that reminds him strongly of ketchup and mustard spread across the bricks like paint. The inside is much nicer, it's definitely a don't judge by it's appearance kinda thing. He wasn't impressed when he first saw it. Though he's only been a handful of times in the last few months and owned the apartment for years he still is in awe by just  _how_ hideous it is.

He has the key, right? Phil pauses next to the building digging his hands through the pockets almost frantically. Because if it's not on him right now he can't get into the building because Fury doesn't want him back at base until Friday. Maybe he could call and explain that he lost his key and Fury has to take him with him.

Probably not.

Oh, this is stupid. He's a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, prepared for anything right? Nope, not for getting inside his apartment. Who needs that right? Housing is lame.  _Ugh!_ He never takes the key  _out_ of his pocket how is there anyway it could disappear? If one of the Level Two agents stole it, Phil is coming after them and will make Darth Vader look  _cuddly_.

This is embarrassing and stupid.  _Where is the key!?_

Phil jerks his head upwards suddenly as a low metallic  _ting_ echoes through the air. His hand immediately goes to the gun he has on hidden on his belt and he squints at the darkness in front of him. There's a dark alleyway between his apartment building and a car garage (the car garage looks like a five star hotel compared to the apartment, it's almost ridiculous. The designers must get a kick whenever they come down this street) where dumpsters are. Phil hasn't really thought about it until now but his paranoia is rising like a steady tide and he frowns before moving forward slowly.

His footsteps are silent across the dirty sidewalk and he breaks off from it standing in front of the alley. His silhouette spreads across the ground making it harder to see and Phil squints into the darkness. He can make out the outline of the green dumpster and the lonely looking boxes next to it. Not cats. Isn't there always cats around these areas in movies?

Phil shoves the thought to the side and takes a step forward again. He did hear something. He's positive, if it  _wasn't_ a cat, what was it? Maybe Fury's right, he does need a break and he's trying to attack imaginary animals and shadows for things that don't even exist. Phil sighs and gives the bridge of his nose a firm pinch.

"You're losing it, Coulson." He mumbles to himself. He should just go ask for the spare key that the people at the front desk kept for him. Or maybe he has the spare key, well... _had_. He can't remember. Phil turns to live pocketing the gun but freezes as a low moan of pain sings through the alleyway like lightning ripping across the skies.

He whips around suddenly  _far_ more interested in the alley than he was before and strides forward keeping a hand within reaching distance of his gun. This could be a trap and he doesn't want to be caught without a way to cut the net.

Phil reaches the end of the alley before he sees something in the darkness, the streetlights don't reach out this far and everything is blanketed in dark shadows. He blinks several times trying to will his eyes to adjust faster but it's not working.

A shadow doesn't look right among the darkness, oddly out of place like mold on a piece bread. Discarded blankets, maybe. Possibly trash left out for an unfortunate soul to trip on. Phil leans down slightly and his eyebrows shoot upwards as he realizes this isn't a lump of blankets or trash,  _it's a person._

Phil leans down grabbing his phone from his pocket and flipping the screen open. The light immediately blasts into the alleyway with the full intensity of a star going supernova and Phil winces slightly as his eyes mewl in protest. Phil ignores his instincts staring at the figure in front of him.

It's a young woman, sixteen or fifteen at the most, with long red hair tangled into a bun and falling down her back in a mess of rats. Her clothing is simple, dark pants with a pale grey shirt. Wrapped around her middle is a belt with a red hourglass in the center. On her feet are a simple pair of ballerina slippers that are well worn through and stained. Phil frowns at her appearance. She looks horribly sick, pale and is bleeding badly across her left arm in a gash that extends from her shoulder to a little bit above her elbow. She looks like a porcelain doll that even the most gentle of touches will shatter.

Phil grits his teeth tightly, he should call in S.H.I.E.L.D., but he's banned from contacting them or showing his face for three days. What if he'd been attacked or something, did Fury even  _think_ this through? Or what if he finds a near dead teenanger in the streets between his ugly apartment and the glorious parking garage?

What is he supposed to do? He's not a medical doctor and judging from her appearance she needs one desperately. He's trained in medical procedures, of course, he's supposed to be ready for anything-but this seems far above his level. Phil purses his lips. He has to do something, he's not going to leave her out here to die and the only medical equipment he has is in his apartment.

Phil glances at the set of stairs for the fire escape on the back of the building then back at the ballerina. Hopefully no one is looking out their window right now or it will be awkward to explain. Yeah, I just carry random unconscious half dead people into my apartment every now and thing, no biggie.

Phil's attention returns to his charge as the woman lets out another soft groan her fingers curling into fists slowly. Is she waking up? She doesn't look like she's waking up. No, she's not waking up, just shifting because of pain. Alrighty then. Phil slowly shifts his hands underneath her knees and shoulders picking her up bridal style.

The teenanger is extremily light, alarmilnly so and Phil bites his lower lip before looking towards the fire escape with purpose. He's going to make it up the stairs to his apartment and help this girl. He has a few days off from S.H.I.E.L.D. anyway, because of his banishment so he has time to help her.

Phil moves forward towards the fire escape and swings a leg over the railing to the fence around the escape hopping awkwardly on the other foot to get both his feet over it. Phil quickly scales the stairs as if he's done it a thousand times even though he never  _has_  and gives a small frustrated breath as he realizes that he  _still_ doesn't know where he put his key.

Fine, he's picking the door. Phil slowly sets the girl down on the wall next to said door and her head leans forward tilting towards the left slightly. Phil grabs a long string of wire he has in sewn into his right boot and shoves the thin metal into the lock and twists it upwards then to the side. The lock gives a small hiss as it opens and Phil gives a small smirk of satisfaction. Ha, Coulson one, lock zero.

Phil turns back to the teenager and his smirk falls. He needs to get her help right now. The wounds look serious. Phil picks her up again and steps into the apartment sideways shutting the door with his foot as he elbows the light on.

The apartment isn't huge, with a kitchen, dining and living room in the a large single space with a hall leading off to a bathroom and bedroom. He hasn't had a ton of time to decreate it, (nor has he really cared) so it's pathetically bare.

Phil moves forward and sets the teen on the couch and moves towards the kitchen ripping open a drawer that promptly dumps a package of bandages, a bottle of motrin and glue on the ground. The drawer is stuffed, ridiculously so and Phil digs through continents looking for disinfectant and a roll of gauze.

Come on, there's some  _in_ here, he used it last time he was here. He should have some, well he doesn't go grocery shopping often and usually has moldy, lumpy milk in the fridge he always keeps his medical supplies up to date. His fingers brush against fabric and Phil latches onto it ripping it from the back of the drawer and dumping more medical supplies at his feet. Ignoring the mess, Phil moves forward towards his patient with purpose making it across the room in a few strides.

The light blue walls reflect the light making it feel brighter than it really is and the red carpet stands out obnoxiously against his black boots. He really does need to find his house key though, if he has to break into his apartment every time he needs to come here, life will be...difficult.

Phil reaches the girl and leans down next to her crumpled form. In the not phone-light he can see the shadows etched beneath her eyes like bruises, how exhausted she looks even though she's asleep (unconscious maybe) and how pale she is. What happened to her is beyond him. Maybe she was mugged. Her appearance suggests otherwise, though. She looks homeless, akin to having lived off the streets for several years.

Phil clenches his jaw and rolls up her light grey sleeve to her shoulder to stare at the cut closer. It's from a knife, that much is obvious and it's deep. Phil rips off a bit of the gauze and dabs disinfectant on it before gently brushing it over the wound.

As soon as the fabric makes contact with her pale skin, the teen inhales sharply and green eyes rip open as her posture jumps into defensive. Her breaths become short, swift and shaky and Phil forces his hand to remain steady about an inch next to her upper arm watching her for another moment. She's remaining still and her eyes are wide, terrified and locked to the ceiling.

She seems entranced by it, but not in a good way. He needs to bring her back to reality to get some answers.

"Hey," Phil says gently and she jerks her emerald eyes towards his face instead. Confusion plays across her features before her expression goes blank and she grows stiff. Phil frowns slightly at the action. She's been trained in the art of masking. It isn't some sort of reflex, it's branded into her brain. "It's okay, you're safe here." He adds softly. He commands his voice to be inviting and gentle, reassuring. Who knows what this girl has been through. He's seem plenty of people after traumatic experiences to know that yelling at them doesn't help. (Though it doesn't seem like something Tyson wouldn't be above). Ah, shut up.

The girl is eyeing his hand warily and she slowly sits up, looking ready to promptly collapse. He doesn't shift, keeping the distance between them silently letting her know that he's not going to attempt anything on her she doesn't want him to. Because he doesn't want to stress her out more when she already looks more than ready to scream.

"I found you in an alley and you were pretty banged up. Can I help you?" He asks. This apparently, was the wrong thing to say. The girl's eyes widen considerably and she shifts them towards her arm slightly, looking panicked. If she would just let him  _help_ her then she wouldn't have to be in so much pain.  _C'mon kid_ , he prods silently.

The girl lets out a small sound of distress that reminds Phil oddly of the broken sound a kitten makes when you accidently kick them and his heart yearns for her. "My name is Phil Coulson, but you can just call me Phil, alright?"

The girl doesn't shift or blink, looking frozen on the spot to the couch. "I want to help you." He adds after a moment. He needs to because for some reason she has become his new mission. She needs help and he's going to give it to her. "Will you let me help," he hesitates for a second before adding, " _please._ "

The girl slowly shifts her arm forward as if in a trance and Phil moves towards it. Ha! Yes! Victory! He gently dabs the cloth onto the wound, noting the girls heavy flinch as he makes contact with her skin. She stares at the far wall almost aggressively and Phil is suddenly very aware of the stupid art he has hanging up on it. Nothing too embarrassing, just random gifts that various agents had thought to gift him with over the years. He's never really  _liked_ any of them, honestly, but he feels obligated to hang up. There's a few landscapes, a modern art style, and one with an truly hideous, creepy, stalkerish cow. Seriously, the cow makes him uncomfortable.

It's always watching. Waiting for the unsuspecting to turn their back before it takes it's next victim.

Phil finishes wiping away the dirt from the gash and grabs the gauze laying on the floor and rips off another piece far lengthier and wraps it around her arm. Wounding around and around from her shoulder to her elbow before the entire thing is covered. It will scar, for sure, and probably feel like her very own personal shark gnawing at her arm for the next few days but she'll live.

Phil sits back on his heels and looks up at the girl who has carefully laid her hands on her lap looking down at them as if they hold all the world's greatest secrets. Phil wraps up the remaining gauze. He wants to know what happened, why she looks like she just clawed her way out from a grave and why she's here. How she got into the alley and where her parents are. If their still alive, they must be worried.

Phil bites his tongue slightly before letting the question slide off of it, "What's your name?"

The girl looks up at him again and gives a very small tilt of her head, she studies him for almost a full minute before giving a soft answer: "Natasha Romanoff." Her voice is laced with a faint Russian accent and Phil blinks in surprise. This girl isn't from another city or state she's from another  _continent._ Natasha. Phil stares at her for a second, yeah, he can see Natasha. The name suits her well.

Phil squints slightly, "Why are you here?"

Natasha purses her lips and her left hand rubs over her right knuckles so tightly it almost looks painful. "I am...I am here because I ran."

Ran. From what?

Her parents? Her country?  _What?_

"I don't understand." Phil says softly, it's better to be honest when you first meet people, right? He's trying to make her feel safe and lying won't be very helpful in that matter. If she's ever going to tell him anything she has to trust him and he's  _going_  to get information on where and why she ran.

"I do not expect you to." Natasha says, her knuckles starting to turn a pale shade of white. "Thank you." She says after a small moment.

Phil gives a small smile, "Happy to be of assistance. Should I call your parents? You're going to be staying the night."

Natasha shakes her head, "I do not have parents." Oh. An orphan. Maybe she ran after they died. "I can manage on my own, however." She makes a move to stand and Phil grabs her shoulder shoving her back down onto the couch. She winces slightly and he grabs the medical equipment.

"Nope, you're staying for at least tonight, alright? I don't know where else you plan on going anyway. I'm going to go grab some blankets and put this away.  _Do not move from this couch."_ He commands and rises to his feet. Natasha's hands fall limp her her lap and he can feel her quizzical gaze as he moves away from her as if she doesn't understand the meaning of help.

Phil tosses the gauze onto the counter and sets the bottle of disinfectant next to it before quickly moving towards the bedroom. He flicks on a lightswitch as he steps into the room bare white walls greet him with a window on the left far one. A bed is in the corner and next to it a dresser, the room smells of old and dust and his nose twitches slightly. Yay for dust. Phil saunters forward and leans down grabbing the bottom drawer and pulls it open. He's pretty sure this is where he put the extra blankets it not he's going to be doing a manhunt.

The drawer is, surprisingly full of happy warm blankets and he grabs the first one he sees, a deep red one. He stands and turns shoving the drawer closed with his foot before walking swiftly back into the kitchen/dining room. Hopefully she didn't make a break for it. He'll hunt her down if she did and drag her back here by her ear.

A head of dark red hair greets him from over the side of the couch and the small building anxiety diminishes. Phil walks towards her purposefully making his footsteps heavy and loud before he tosses the blanket at her face. "Here." He says as she jumps from the sudden contact. "We'll talk more in the morning, alright?" He says and the teenager just watches him warily.

He's not going to pull a gun on her, will she calm down?

He sighs internally, it's going to be a long few days. He says the next sentence more to himself than her: "Get some sleep."

Chapter Two:

The silence doesn't help settle her unease.

It only makes her remember.

It wasn't a common thing, silence, there was almost always sound. Silence meant that she'd done something wrong and she was being punished. The gunshots ringing through the air, piano playing and feet hitting the ground again and again. The rhythmic tap was haunting and made her want to tug at her hair and scream but she focused on her steps, making it perfect, as she was told to.

She's a master of stealth and knows perfectly well how to draw attention to herself and how not to. She doesn't want to be here. The strong desire to pick up and run is starting to become a pulsing ache. She doesn't want to know what he'll do to her if she does move though. She was told to stay here and when she didn't follow orders in the past it always ended in pain.

She didn't take the blanket.

Instead with careful fingers, almost as if it's breakable (which she knows is stupid but if she damages it, what will he do? She saw two guns on him and at least three other weapons) she placed on the ground beside the couch. She made as little noise as possible and waited with baited breath for almost a full five minutes before she determined that the man wasn't going to harm her.

Of all the places to pass out, Natasha. You had to pick the  _one ally_ with this man next to it. It's not like she  _asked_ for it. She was looking for food and her muscles gave out. Her arm is probably infected, she had the dig the tracking device out of it and the only thing she had was a knife. It wasn't the most pleasant experience she's ever had but now all they'll find is the small device sitting at the bottom of a lake.

Time is passing in what feels almost backwards.

It's around four thirty in the morning the last time she checked yet the night has never felt slower. She needs the man, Coulson to come out so she can convince him she needs to leave. She can't stay here. She has to keep moving because the longer she lingers the more likely they are to find her.

She can't go back.

_She can't._

She refuses, they'll have to drag her kicking and screaming.

She can't stay here, she  _needs to keep moving._ Can't he see that? The man is dangerous though, so she held her tongue.

The bandages on her arm are stiff, bulky and slightly awkward in a way that makes her uncomfortable. The last time she can remember she used any was when she was about ten and someone misfired a bullet that hit her in the stomach. The scar is ugly, jagged and she doesn't like looking at it. Though she was supposed to be devoid of emotions there was some distaste to the girl who shot her after that.

Natasha lets her head drop against the back of the couch and her hands go lax. It's dangerous and stupid to relax though, something she knows too well.

How does she get out of here?

She could attempt to leave right now but with her arm she's not sure she can sneak through a window. She wasn't really conscious until after Coulson tried to wrap her arm, but she was sort of there. She heard him climbing stairs and she needs both arms to climb. She doesn't have a weapon or a layout of the building. Coulson has the upper hand here and she doesn't know  _why_ he wants her.

She's nothing useful.

Unless the man is aware of the ransom that they put on her head. Quick, easy, money.

Ugh!

What is she supposed to do, though? Cry?

Natasha drags her gaze up to the clock, it's been twenty three minutes since the last time she checked making it six ten AM. Natasha feels her body go rigid as the sound of movement rings from the other room in the apartment. The apartment isn't small by any means, but she's seen bigger.

He's moving.

Is he going to shoot her?

What would the purpose of him wrapping her wound be, then?

Natasha gnaws on her inner lip, but forces her outward appearance to be calm. The sounds of movement quiet considerably before she hears Coulson moving away from what she assumes is his bedroom. His footsteps, she can tell are a forced, obnoxious loud because they sound bulky and awkward. Unnatural.

Coulson steps into the room and her spine gets tighter as she feels him move towards the couch. He steps into her view of vision and she resists the urge to raise an eyebrow. Yesterday, he was in a full suit, tie and everything looking professional and intimidating now? He's in grey sweatpants and a loose shirt that has to be from America's Fourth of July. The flag is waving dramatically across the white background with an older form of writing picking out bits of the Declaration of Independence that are splattered across the flag and background.

Her expression falls to a blank neutral despite her desire to laugh.

She hasn't really laughed in years and doesn't plan to start now.

Phil's blonde hair is spiked up in a tired bedhead but the faint rings under his eyes signify the little sleep he got last night. Probably more than her. He likely  _attempted_.

His eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise as he meets her gaze, "You're still here." He notes and this time she  _does_ raise an eyebrow. Does it look like she moved?

"Yes." She bites her tongue panic splashing across her. She's not supposed to talk back, they didn't like it. He probably won't too. Natasha quickly sweeps her gaze over him for weapons. She can't see anything obvious but she's sure there's something.

Phil either doesn't notice her rising panic or doesn't comment on it as he glances at the blanket, "You didn't sleep." He doesn't say it as a question more like a statement that she feels little desire to confirm or shoot down.

"Are you hungry? You look hungry, I'll make breakfast." Phil says and moves away from her line of sight. She twists around on the couch almost immediately to follow him her sight. He... _asked_ her? They never did. She's been running for a little over two months but the way people act outside her targets and trainers still confuses her.

Why did he ask her?

Isn't she a prisoner here.

"Admittedly, I don't think I have more than lumpy milk in the fridge so I hope you're okay with dry cereal...If I have that." Phil narrates and walks behind the counter to pull open a cupboard. His eyebrows meet in his distress as he pushes several objects through it. Maybe glass, it sounds like glass, and plastic.

After a moment he pulls out a box of cereal that her brain scrambles with for a moment to translate. Cheerios.

Cheery cereal? Really?  _Why?_ No one likes mornings. It would just make her frustrated and toss them across the room. Though she's never had any so maybe they do bring cheer-not that she really cares. She's not eating it. She trusts Phil about as much as she does a man with a gun pointed at her head with a promise to shoot. He may not bare weapons she can see but he must have some on him.

She would.

Phil opens the box and digs through the bag for a moment before throwing a handful of the golden cereal into his mouth. She didn't really get what they looked like he moved to fast. Phil swallows the cheerful cereal before meeting her gaze from across the room.

"Are you going to just sit there?"

She doesn't answer.

Or move.

So...yes. She's going to sit here.

This couch is nice, friendly and hasn't tried to kill her yet. She is quite fond of this couch. If he set up traps she's not going to fall for them. Phil shrugs before putting the box on the countertop and turning to the cupboard again. He pulls out two glasses and fills them with water before tucking the cereal box under one arm and moving towards the couch again. As he does so, she turns back to the disturbing cow painting.

Phil sits on the coffee table about a foot and a half away and she licks her lips before firmly biting her lower one. Does he have to be so close, she was quite alright with him being on the other side of the apartment.

Phil sets a glass down beside him and the cereal box before lifting the remaining glass towards her.

What if he poisoned it?

She watched him fill the glass though. It should be fine...right? No, she shouldn't risk it.

Phil seems to sense her paranoia and without words takes the other glass and downs the entire thing before resting the empty glass on the floor beside the leg. He outstretches the glass again that she takes cautiously with her right hand.

Her left is firmly presses against her side where she may protect it from further harm. She doesn't have any medicine and if it gets infected she's done for.

Phil grabs the box of cereal again as Natasha cautiously presses the glass to her lips. The cool liquid rushes down her throat and relief crashes through her. She didn't realize how thirsty she was until now. She quickly drinks the rest of the glass and resists the urge to ask for more.

She'll be fine. She'll leave soon anyway and can find more...well  _steal_  it.

Phil tosses another mouthful of the cheerios into his mouth and Natasha watches him with slight interest. He pauses after a moment and outstretches the box to her. She doesn't take any. The box looks  _far_ to cheerful to be safe.

Phil raises an eyebrow after a moment at her expression, "Have you had these before?"

Natasha meets his gaze, "No." Nor does she really want to.

"I'm not going to poison you." He says after a few seconds of awkward silence. "I promise I'm just trying to help. Now eat, you look dead on your feet."

Phil waves the yellow box more aggressively towards her and with some irritation she shoves her hand into the cardboard, tensely, before grabbing a few of the pieces. It feels sticky. She withdraws her hand and stares at the six pieces for a moment with intensity. Why did they put holes in the middle? Wouldn't it have just been easier to do circles?

Phil snickers slightly and she lifts her gaze from the cheerios to him. He offers no elaboration and shoves another handful into his mouth. How can he stand the stickiness? After a pointed look from Phil she shoves the happy cereal into her mouth and chews.

It doesn't taste happy.

It tastes like dirt.

Or at least, honey covered grain. It's not  _bad_  per say now that she's actually tasting it and not just chewing, it's sort of sweet. Huh. The food they had there was always the same. She never got to try new things until she escaped and by then she could only take what wouldn't be missed. Typically bread or sometimes bagels.

She likes the cereal of good cheer.

She swallows and looks up at Phil. Can she take more? She should've taken more when he offered it to her. Is that all he'll give her because she talked back to him?

More surprise than she wants to admit to flashes through her as he outstretches the box to her again. "Do you like it?" He asks and eyes the yellow paperboard as she reaches for it again, "I'm not the biggest fan."

Natasha grabs a bigger handful her stomach twisting painfully as she does so reminding her that it's been a few days since she last ate. And a good period of time before that. She's been focusing on  _moving,_ eating has been a second priority or maybe a third.

Phil sets the box down on the ground next to the blanket and stretches. He still looks like he got ran over by a bus then decided to move on anyway. "You look like a drowned rat, no offense." He says and she pauses chewing on the magical cheerios to meet his gaze with a frustrated one.

She hasn't had a mirror or a brush nor really cared about her appearance.

She's been a little busy.

"I'm going to assume you don't have any other clothing." Phil says and she gives a slow nod. Is that bad? She had a total of three at one period of time. They only replaced it if you broke it. Phil purses his lips before leaning forward.

"Natasha." He says her name almost sadly. Did she do something wrong? Oh gosh, she needs to get out of here. After a momentary pause he looks up at her, "There's a shower down the hall on the right. Use it. When you get out, we'll talk."

Phil makes a move to stand and grabs the precious cheerios' box off the ground. "Sir," Natasha says after a moment and he turns to look at her, confused. "I need to leave. I can't stay here."

Phil tilts his head slightly, "Why?"

_Cats._

Does she have to answer?

_He has weapons._

This was his goal all along, wasn't it? To withdraw information from her. That's why he gave her the food and the water. She shouldn't have accepted. Why is she such an idiot?

"I…" Why can't she think of anything to say? She's a master of lies, deception...why is nothing coming? The best she can come up with is that her parents will worry but didn't she say that she doesn't have any last night? Brilliant move, Nat.

Phil shifts slightly the cheerios shifting on the inside of the plastic. She has little left to lose.

Natasha squeezes her eyes shut. "Are you going to shoot me?"

She hears, rather than sees the cheerios box drop on the ground. Natasha peels her eyelids apart with some effort as Phil's shocked expression meets her face. "I'm sorry... _what?"_

Natasha purses her lips forcing herself to seem like she's gained confidence. "Shoot me. I saw your guns, Sir, I would like to know now."

There's two major ways to gain information. One: Ask.

Two: Deceive people into telling you.

Natasha usually rests solely in the second, her web is set and the threads ready to be tangled. Maybe. With how slow her brain is moving at this panicked haze she may not get very far.

Phil runs a hand through his hair and for the first time since she met him, looks utterly frazzled. He moves back to the coffee table, carefully avoiding the cheerios and sits down in front of her.

"No."

"Why?"

"Why so?"

"I'm dangerous."

"You're a child."

"Teenager."

"Same thing. Do you think I'm going to shoot you?"

Natasha hesitates for a moment, "Yes."

Is she incapable of keeping her mouth shut? She doesn't trust this man.  _She does not._ Why does he keep pulling information from her?  _She's_ the one with the spider's web not him, yet it feels like she's continuously kicking herself. She's exhausted. She hasn't slept more than what's utterly necessary for human life in the last two months ran off of bits of bread and the occasional water bottle or drinking fountain she could find.

" _You're growing lax, Natalia."_

Natasha shoves the memory that's pulsing at the back of her head out and meets the eyes of Coulson again. Phil looks like she kicked him, "Alright. Your shirt looks like it's been through a war zone,"  _oh, how little he knows, "_ Do you mind borrowing one of mine?"

Natasha's eyebrows meet at her confusion, "Why? I will not be here long."

Phil smirks, "We'll see. Shower, go."

000o000

Despite her silent promises, Natasha doesn't leave the apartment. Two days pass in what feels backwards. Every time she attempts an escape, Phil seems to just  _be there._ When she isn't planning his death in frustration or trying her best to ignore him in rebellion, she sleeps. For some reason, Phil being there settles the little voice at the back of her head that assures her that sleep is bad, because if he's  _so flipping intent_ on keeping her there, he won't let anyone take her, right?

After some three days since the night on the alleyway, Natasha sits on the couch, (a spot she has silently claimed as her own, even though she's leaving the moment Phil leaves her by herself) she runs her hands through her messy hair. The shower felt amazing-though she would never admit it aloud.

The shirt Phil made her take is a deep black with some sort of bird encrusted into the shoulder. She recognizes it, but can't place from where. Just another thing she should avoid as she was taught, something about them being dangerous. It's baggy but comfortable. It's warmer than her other shirt was too, which is nice. New York isn't as cold as Russia but it has it's moments.

With a rather aggressive pull towards a knot, Natasha hisses through her teeth at the strain it puts on her arm. Phil hasn't asked any more questions since the first day just given directions or been some sort of annoying shadow, that despite how much she leaves the sun he's  _still there._

What does he  _want_ from her?

She knows if she asks, though, he'll answer with a question in return and she really doesn't feel like revealing any more than she has too.

Phil glances up from the book he's reading (though she's sixty percent sure it's a cookbook and he's just watching her) and she doesn't offer an answer just proceeds on the de-tangling.

He glances at something else before closing the book and moving forward. He sits down on the other cushion on the couch as he's done a lot the last few days and hums to himself for a moment.

"I think it's time we address this." Phil says and Natasha turns her gaze to look at him. What? There's a lot of things they should address.

"You can't keeping going on by yourself, so we have two choices." Phil says and Natasha purses her lips.  _He_ has two choices, not  _we._ "I either turn you to the CPS or you stick with me."

Natasha's blood rushes cold and her hands drop. "No."

She can't hurt anyone else. If she stays here, that's what will happen. She's already been here too long. They'll find her soon, tracking device or not.

Phil tilts his head, "Yeah, I kind of assumed you'd say that." Phil pulls a phone from his pocket and Natasha feels a spaz of panic run through her.

"Wait!" She protests and leans forward across the couch in a swift movement snatching the metal device from his hand. Natasha clutches it to her chest. He can't report her.  _He can't._ Frustration travels through her to extreme levels. Her voice comes out more of a panicked gasp than a solid sentence, "What do you  _want_ from me?"

Phil pauses for a moment before meeting her eyes, "You to trust me."


	16. Let's Start With the Basics--Name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of my mental health, every request that I was working on and had made progress in is going to be posted here. I can't find the energy to finish them right now, but maybe some day. 
> 
> Request by: Emi, guest
> 
> Basic overview: Loki gets amneisa

* * *

 

The alcohol burns as it passes down her throat, strong enough to make her want to heave. She isn’t concerned much, the feeling is bitterly familiar; and she’s well beyond weeping at the discomfort now. 

It helps.

Not a lot, but enough.

The edge of the glass digs into her gums and Brunnhilde releases it, letting the bottle drop by her side as she tries to ignore the stagger, growing headache, and general discomfort. Oh, how she hates the taste of this. She’s rather suck on withering mold. Yet, it is better than  _ remembering _ , and she can handle the mild sickness well enough.

She sighs through her teeth and tries to stay on point. Focused. The time allotted to her to spend outside of the main city is dwindling, and she needs to finish her job before she’s called back. Thus far, she hasn’t had much luck, though.

The Junk Fields are always a fifty-fifty,  _ she knows this,  _ and she should have vouched for the city this week. The only living things here are scavenging animals, desperate bounty hunters, and other Scrappers--though she has yet to see any. Which is a relief, it’s free territory out here, and she won’t be pulled back to the capital under an obedience disk.

Yeah, this is empty; any poor souls who fell through the jump points must have just hit open space. Pity. She chews on her lower lip, and fingers the bottles rim, trying to think. She can’t return empty handed, but four hours of searching have been quite fruitless. She’s moving further from her ship, too, which is a petty mistake. It could be stolen and then her advantage really will be gone.

Brunnhilde kicks at the rubble a little and watches as the bits of paper roll down the hill of other junk. It, unsurprisingly, does not reveal the answer to her problems. Well. This is fine; she just has no idea what to do now.

She must have under a standard hour left judging by the sun’s position, which means she  _ should  _ spend the last few minutes returning back to her ship instead of wading through rubbish. Fine. She won’t get paid this week, she has enough resources to survive for at least six days, but the expense of anything in the capital will drain her dry quickly.

Brunnhilde releases a slight sigh and turns on her heel, storming back through the junk, but mindful enough to keep an eye on the portals. None reveal the solution to her problem, and Brunnhilde has drained her bottle dry by the time she spots her ship in the distance. 

Her senses are fuzzy now, and her ability to stay upright is waning. 

No one’s here to see. It doesn’t matter much. Maybe she’ll pass out again. That would be a relief.

She reaches the ship at last, and leans against it, trying to catch her breath and not be sick all over the dirty ground. This is awful. She must have overestimated again, and now she’s going to spend hours throwing up. Hours of time she doesn’t  _ have.  _

This does beg the question of when the last time she ate was.

Not recent enough that she remembers, but she has little desire to consume something with all the knots in her chest. Her desire to topple is growing, so she grips at the slick metal harder. Something is ringing in the back of her head--no, not quite ringing, it’s just  _ there  _ and it’s loud, and she wishes it would stop.

Ten minutes until she has to leave. She spent five hours out here and found nothing. Maybe he’ll insist she wasn’t trying hard enough, and stop her from leaving the capital next week, too, and then she’ll have to ration  _ further.  _ Curse her stupid metabolism.

The stupid  _ tether. _

And what on Helheim is that  _ noise!?  _

Wait--noise?

Living.  _ Life.  _

It sounds like gasps, perhaps groaning, but whatever is  _ making  _ the noise--it’s not her, her lips are pressed together--is alive, and  _ that  _ she can use as a bargain with the Grandmaster. She can sell it. She doesn’t have to starve for the next two weeks.

Her hands tighten some with relief and anxiety. She forces her stomach to settle, shoving it to the side to think about later as she slowly turns around. Aghk! She’s going to topple, but she  _ needs  _ to find the--

Her head slams against the ground and she blinks rapidly, trying to gather her bearings.

Collapsed. She  _ collapsed.  _ Well. Nothing unusual anymore, but as much as she would love to stay here, she needs to get up and find the living thing so she can earn the money. Alright. Up.  _ Up, up, up.  _

Brunnhilde slowly rolls onto her hands and knees, gasping sharply when the vomit threatens to exit. Her vision is blurring, and the headache is strong enough to bring water to her eyes. Isn’t alcohol supposed to be  _ numbing?  _ It doesn’t feel like it in the slightest now.

She blows out sharply through her teeth and shoves herself to her feet. She lingers for a moment longer so the world stops spinning as rapidly before she begins to stumble in the direction of the noise. It’s towards the east, which is one of the first directions she checked when she arrived here at the peak of the afternoon.

Has it been here since that time?

Someone else could have picked it up and dragged it off--she got lucky. The Junk Field is always down to a matter of luck, and usually she doesn’t have a great abundance of it.

The noise is getting louder, and Brunnhilde stops for a second to search rapidly with her eyes trying to spot the origin of it. Where, where--Ah. About four meters to her left, she can see the clothing of something curled on their side. It’s difficult to make out many other features with her blurring vision and the distance, but at least she knows that it’s  _ there.  _

Brunnhilde digs a disk out of her pocket and flicks on the tab to get it ready to inject into the skin as she grabs her weapon with her other hand. She advances slowly, but not as quietly as she was hoping for. It doesn’t seem to matter much, because the thing doesn’t shift, only continuing to gasp and wheeze.

Brunnhilde makes it about a foot from the thing and flicks the disk towards the neck as she grabs the shoulder with the edge of her boot and shoves him onto his back. She draws back sharply, her eyes wide with disgust.

What on the--?

There’s a dagger sticking out from his ribs, likely the source of the wheezing. It entered at an angle, sticking out of his ribcage with the hilt pointing down, and despite the fact that the dagger is acting as a cap, there’s still blood leaking around the blade lazily.

She flicks her head up to see if she can spot the portal he entered from, but the sky is empty around them. Battle wounds aren’t uncommon, all it means is that she has more work to do. 

Great.

They couldn’t have landed here four hours ago when she was more sober?

She sighs through her teeth, and then squats down next to the wound to get a better visual, trying to determine what to do from here. The gasps aren’t getting weaker, if anything they seem to be growing more rapid, which is somewhat of a relief, she thinks. If she squints, she can make out a faint glow under the layers of leather, which means they’re likely a sedir user.

Well, swell; those are always fun to transport. 

Brunnhilde blows out a breath and lifts out her hand a little to shift the vest out of the way, but cold fingers wrap around her forearm. Her hand tightens on the obedience disk’s operator, but she doesn’t immediately react. Instead, she flicks her gaze towards the creature’s face and feels her eyes widen with further surprise.

The stab is bad, but it’s  _ nothing  _ compared to the state of his head. 

Blood is mattered through black hair, and smears of red trace across his eyes and are leaking from his nose and eyes mixing with tears. How he’s conscious, she has no idea, but his grasp seems to be straining. Green eyes are flitting for a moment longer before they settle on her face, and his lips part.

He coughs instead of speaking, and it sounds wet.

Brunnhilde forces herself to take point, twisting out of the weak grip with ease. She watches the hand fall weakly at his side, until he gasps again and his hand lifts as if to claw at where the dagger is. Brunnhilde smacks his hands away and pulls up the broken fabric near the stab to glance at the skin. No infection thus far, but it will need stitches.

She can’t sell a broken fighter to the Grandmaster.

“Please,” his voice is ragged, and she flicks her gaze up towards him, “ _ please,”  _ he repeats.

“What?” She questions halfheartedly, suddenly aware that the headwound must have cracked something in his skull, and letting him fall asleep is one of the worst things she can do in this situation. 

“...Wrong,” the man whispers, squeezing his eyes shut, “wrong, something...something is…”

“Yeah,” she agrees dully, “you got yourself into a sore spot. What’d you do?”

“...Can’t...can’t…” He coughs again, and moans as it shifts the dagger. 

She needs to get him back to the ship. She has  _ real  _ healing equipment in there, and all she’s going to do is talk with him if she sits there. And she needs to be back before the Grandmaster flares up the beam, because then it won’t matter much if she can’t eat for the next two weeks. A smoldering corpse really doesn’t need the nutrients.

Ugh. She shouldn’t have gone so heavy today.

Her tongue tastes like sand. 

Brunnhilde shifts a little, until she’s at the top of his shoulders and grabs at the top of the vest. She hesitates for a second only to warn, “this is probably going to hurt” before she drags him back. His hands flinch and he gasps again, but she keeps his head off of the ground as best she can as she pulls him back to her ship.

The lighting is getting dimmer, but she can still make out that his hair is slick with blood in the back as well, and the intensity of how bad his head must be is only starting to dawn on her.  _ How  _ is he still conscious? The pain of it should have made anyone pass out. 

Maybe it would have been a mercy if he did.

Not that she cares much. He’s a trading object, nothing more. She just needs to keep him alive for a few more days, clean him up a bit, and then he’ll be out of her hair. 

She pulls him into the small medbay in her ship, lifting him onto the small cot and digs out the medical equipment that she has. Most of its powder that has to be taken with water, but that isn’t much of an option given his head, so she doesn’t bother much with it.

She rubs what ointment she can into his skull feeling the distorted bumps, and decides that she can’t take the risk of him damaging his neck or something else. She digs out a sleeping gas and twists off the cap beneath his nose.

He flinches to it, twisting his head away, but the effects are rapid and soon he’s slumped completely.

Well.

That’s that, then.

Now she has to give stitches, though she’d much rather not. Brunnhilde sighs through her teeth and cuts open his shirt, pulling it away from the dagger and prepares gauze to apply pressure. This isn’t her first battle wound. She’s seen blood before.

Why is she hesitating?

(Typically, she doesn’t have to do this type of surgery with half a functioning brain and hands that won't sit still). The procedure is messy, leaving far more blood everywhere than she was hoping for, but she manages to get the stitches into his stomach to piece him back together as best she can.

She notes--with an almost distant apathy--that his chest is a mess of scars. They look like they were painful when he received them, and she’s not stupid enough to  _ not  _ recognize torture when she sees it. Hmm,  _ he’s  _ been busy.

Brunnhilde abates her curiosity on the subject before it can grasp at her to firmly, and then blows out a long, tired sigh. She  _ has  _ something to sell now, so she doesn’t have to worry about not eating this week, but if this man isn’t in good enough condition to participate in the fights, than Grandmaster isn’t going to buy him off of her.

That means that she has a little under thirty-six hours to nurse him back to health. 

Some-what health.

He really only needs to be able to stand.

But in order to  _ do  _ that, she needs to get medical supplies from the city, and  _ that  _ means using more of her units. She doesn’t have enough to deal with a stab--or head wound--that bloody and messy. Does she even have disinfectant anymore? She doesn’t think so. After she got mugged and beaten in the city a few weeks ago, she had to use the disinfectant on her calf where the mugger stabbed her.

Great, place, Sakaar. She adores it here. 

Norns, if she could find a way to leave…

It’s probably best not to contemplate those thoughts. She’ll only make herself miserable, and she spends a lot of time already doing so. Brunnhilde bites at her lower teeth for a second, squinting through her headache as she attempts to cuff the man’s left wrist to the bed frame. She doesn’t throw up, or fall flat on her face, so she considers that a win.

A pathetic one. 

But still a win.

Twenty minutes later, she has the ship on autopilot to return to the city, as has been demanded of her by the enforces, and she’s curled up in a small ball underneath the controls as she tries to calm and quell the burning sensation of the drink.

She doesn’t find much success.

000o000

She’s in a mood, when, a little over four hours later, she finally lands in the city. She scowls at everyone in the docking port as she signs her ship in, and then, after having it strapped down and searched for anything that might have been smuggled--she’s a  _ smuggler  _ so this step has always seemed largely useless to her--she’s given permission to enter the city.

Muttering something unsavory about the officer’s state of breath under her mouth as she drags the prisoner out, she takes the back route to the living area, and pulls him inside of her small apartment. It isn’t anything impressive. Just a two-roomed living area without a bed or much furniture to begin with, but it’s home.

It’s house. Home is the top of the Dejorunn mountain range in Asgard, the training grounds for the Valkyrie, the smell of her mother’s cooking, the crinkle of the glass on the Bifrost, atop her pegasus--home is Asgard, and Asgard is not an option anymore. She’s a fool to still long for it, that much she knows, but she can’t help the desire.

She belonged there. Here, a drunk without much of a purpose, she’s a survivor, and she is nothing important anymore. Sakaar fames to be the home for the lost; it’s where people go when they want to die _ ,  _ but are too much of cowards to see the act done. 

That much these long years have taught her.

Brunnhilde drags the prisoner towards the middle of the floor of the first room--a tiny kitchen with a small sitting area--and releases him to go close the door. This is the first time that she’s had to perform first aid on anyone beyond herself for a while, and she’s a little rusty. The prisoners before this one have all been in relatively good shape, and she could sell them off to the Grandmaster that day.

This one is going to have to wait.

Which is marvelous.

Grandmaster will be less agreeing to her bidding units by then. Why does everything have to be so pricey here? The amount of money she earns from him would be more than enough to last her years on Asgard--or anywhere else in the cosmos--but basic bread can cost thousands. 

She’d bid a three million on her recent catch, and it still had barely been enough. That’s the problem with planets that don’t trade, she supposes, the cost of their money decreases as time passes, because there isn’t really a way to make anyone actually rich. 

The prisoner is a sedir user from what she saw, which means she might be able to bargain more. 

That would be something.

Brunnhilde turns away from the door, rubbing at her forehead lightly. There’s a burning desire to drink again pressing at her, but she needs to go to the market to get the healing supplies so she can fix the stab wound. Her desire to do that intoxicated isn’t very high. 

Brunnhilde checks the prisoner’s bonds, makes sure the obedience disk is in place, grabs a satchel of units, and straps Dragonfang at her hip before mentally bracing herself for the chaotic streets. 

000o000

The supplies run goes without too much of a problem, and Brunnhilde doesn’t have to threaten anyone with a losing a hand this week, so that’s good. She doesn’t get as much in the medical department that she was hoping, and she’s completely dry of funds by the time she’s finished grabbing what food she can, and stocked up on other necessities.

She returns to her apartment to find the prisoner still on the floor like a dead man, and puts away everything but the medical supplies. With that settled and one less thing to worry about, Brunnhilde kneels down next to him again, and, after applying what cream she can to the stab, re-wraps the wounds and goes to bed.

000o000

She’s stuffing breakfast down her throat when the prisoner finally awakens, but it’s less so much “awake” is it is “in a daze”. His green eyes open again, squinting at the terrible overhead lights (one is flickering again, and she’s going to have to whack at it with a wrench again until it pulls its weight) and his hands stray towards the stab as if on instinct.

Brunnhilde sighs around a mouthful of food, “Don’t touch that,” she warns, and his hands still.

Brunnhilde picks herself up off the floor, bowl of breakfast still in hand, and transverses the space between them until she’s squatting down next to him. She shoves a spoonful of the tasteless food into her mouth, and tries to determine by how pale his face is whether or not the stupidly expensive creams she got had any effect.

She’s going to guess no.

Shame.

The man’s eyes are on her, but rather than the wariness she was expecting, he mostly seems confused. Brunnhilde sighs, and reaches her hand forward to peak beneath the bandages, but his entire body goes rigid.

Brunnhilde raises an eyebrow, “I’m not going to impale you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she promises. Whether or not he  _ gets _ impaled again when she sends him off to the arena is anyone’s guess, so she’s not going to promise that he won’t. 

The prisoner releases a little breath, but shakes his head. It’s not in response to her question, and he mumbles out a few things that she doesn’t really pick up, save something about a “brother”, “stupid”, and the last one makes her freeze: “Hela”.

It’s a name she hasn’t heard since before she stepped foot on Sakaar, and she was more than happy about that. She nearly drops her breakfast, and instead sets it down beside her with stiff hands. 

Memories threaten to tumble over the forefront of her mind, but she shoves back the sounds of battle and grabs at the prisoners wrist, dragging him into a seated position without much care for the wound. An open grimace flashes over his features, but she doesn’t care. This man is at least, in Terran terms, fifteen years younger than her, and she  _ knows  _ what Odin planned to do to his daughter’s name.

No one should know who she is.

So  _ how  _ on Helheim does this man?

“Hela?” Brunnhilde repeats, and the name falls from her lips like a curse. The monster is completely worthy of it, though, and she feels no need for guilt. Only a growing trepidation that’s making her sick, “How do you know that? Where did you learn that?” She demands.

The man stares at her blankly, “I…” he trails.

Brunnhilde shakes him, “This isn’t a time for games. How on the Nine do you know that name?”

The prisoner exhales, “I don’t know,” he admits, eyes wide. His accent is slightly familiar, but she can’t quite place it. 

Brunnhilde snorts, “Right.”

“No, please,” the man insists looking up at her desperately, “ _ I don’t know.”  _

The sincerity in his voice and open confusion on his face makes her pause. She opens her mouth to answer, but stops when the dried blood in his hair catches her eye. Blood. The headwound was  _ bleeding  _ yesterday, and she hadn’t really checked it. It hadn’t mattered at the time, because there was a stab and that was more pressing. The back of his skull felt a little funny when she poked at it at the Junk Fields, but that was about all she did.

Memories can get lost in head wounds.

He likely doesn’t know because he doesn’t  _ remember.  _ Not anymore. If she had asked him before he fell asleep yesterday, would he have been able to tell her what Hela has to do with any of this? Would Brunnhilde then know if the monster finally escaped her prison? Has Odin died? Is Asgard well? That would be the monster’s first target if she escaped her bonds.

Ugh! This is so frustrating! 

Brunnhilde doesn’t release his forearm, trying to be patient but not finding a lot of success in that department: “What  _ do  _ you remember, then?”

The prisoner frowns a little, blinking several times. “I…” he trails, and then looks up at her, “do you and I know one another?”

She nearly snorts outright with laughter. He should be glad they don’t. She is a--oh.  _ Oh.  _ That is a good question.  _ Should  _ they know each other? Because if he remembers  _ nothing-- _ then she can easily turn him into her ally and learned what he has to do with Hela. Even as much as she doesn’t want to get caught in the middle of Odin’s family drama  _ again.  _

But does she even want to know?

She left Asgard behind when she fled Helheim.

( _ No. She didn’t. She likes to pretend that she did, but she didn’t.) _

All this barely has time to cross her thoughts before she’s blurting out a sentence she hardly first thinks over: “We’re siblings.” The prisoner’s eyes narrow a little, and Brunnhilde catches his conclusion a moment later as she realizes they look close to nothing alike, “You’re adopted,” she continues, and nearly slams a hand over her mouth at her idiocy.

_ Norns. _

She can’t back out  _ now.  _

Why couldn’t she have just said they were lovers or something? Close friends? Or, maybe, the honest truth of  _ I’m a slave dealer and you’re my prisoner that I’m going to... _ to… _ is  _ she? Is she going to sell him now?  _ Can  _ she? She always does her best to distance herself from this. When she has to turn them in, she’s always too drunk to stand because she  _ hates  _ the fact that the very thing she and her shield-sisters fought to stop is something she’s now a part of.

If her commanding officer could see her now…

What shame she would feel.

( _ No! She’ll make her shield-sisters proud, they’ll see. She’s going to draw Dragonfang and plunge it through the monster’s heart. She’ll avenge them. That’s all she’s been dreaming of for decades).  _

Norns, she shouldn’t have talked to him. The more silence that passes between her and her prisoners the better. This is why she tries to take them and then  _ remove _ them all within the same day. If it wasn’t for that  _ stupid  _ stab wound, then she would have already sold him and been done with this crap.

Instead…

“Oh,” the man breathes, frowning a little, “you’re...my sister?” The word sounds a little fumbled off of his tongue, as if he hasn’t said it a lot before, and she’s guessing that  _ before  _ this happened, he probably didn’t have any sisters. He mentioned a brother, but it could have been a shield-brother, or just a title.

Maybe.

Brunnhilde nods anyway, trying to quell the sudden discomfort at her lies. It isn’t the first time she’s given false information, but, for some reason, taking advantage of his injury seems...cruel. “Yeah...I’m your sister,” she nearly swallows the word, “we haven’t seen each other in a long time, and you showed up at my doorstep looking like this and it isn’t the best way to reacquaint with family, stupid.” She chides.

Family.

She doesn’t  _ have  _ family.

The man blinks, squinting still, and rubs at his eyes a little with his free hand. He holds her stare for a few seconds before shaking his head, “You’re lying,” he murmurs.

Her stomach does something funny, and she forces out a breath, “How do you know that?”

“Just do,” the prisoner insists, voice slurred, blinking several times again.

Brunnhilde weighs her options for a long second, and then submits with a sigh, “Yeah. I am. I don’t know anything about you, and we met under...not savory circumstances.”

Well. At least  _ now  _ she doesn’t have to feel ashamed for continuing with her original plans. He won’t think of her as family, just someone that lied to him. That’s fine. 

The man gives a bitter sort of smile, and rubs at his forehead again. Brunnhilde becomes aware that she’s still holding his forearm, but doesn’t feel quite ready to let him go yet. Brunnhilde thins her lips, breathing out slowly through her nose. “Listen, I have a vendetta to settle, and unless you can tell me more about what you know on Hela,  _ shut up.  _ I don’t like prattlers.”

The prisoner bites at his lower lip, “I…I think…” he trails, then gently runs a hand across the bandages, “she did that to me. I was...I was I don’t know, but I threw the dagger at her, and she caught it and...threw it back at me?”

“How can you be  _ confused  _ about that?” Brunnhilde demands in exasperation. “I’d bloody well know who  _ stabbed  _ me.”

Hela’s free.

She’s  _ free. _

_ Norns, norns, norns-- _ She needs a drink. No, she needs  _ more  _ than one drink. Enough until she’s buzzing or going to pass out. Preferably both--then she doesn't have to deal with any of this. 

_ Coward.  _

_ Shut it.  _

The prisoner’s eyes narrow, “I don’t know much of  _ anything.  _ Just...flashes. You...you aren’t very nice.” 

Brunnhilde snorts, “Truer words have never been spoken. Now shut up or I’ll gag you,” she promises and releases his arm. The prisoner immideantily topples backwards, landing on his back with a loud noise of pain or surprise. She doesn’t look at him again, grabbing her bowl of gruel and rising to her feet. 

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the day, and Brunnhilde forces him to drink a potion she managed to nick out of the healer’s cart without the man noticing, and tries really hard not to think about anything they discussed.

The monster doesn’t deserve that type of attention, and she doesn’t care about this man.

Not one bit.

If he loses his memories, good riddance to them. It’s not her problem.

000o000

It is one hundred percent her problem. She honestly doesn’t want it to be, but she doesn’t really have much choice on the matter. 

  
  
  


  
  
  


“Anything?” Brunnhilde questions, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice, but not finding a lot of success. If her charge notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

Loki shakes his head, lips thinned. “No. Nothing.”

Brunnhilde sighs, and tightens her grip around Dragonfang, rubbing at her forehead a little with her other hand. “I wasn’t really expecting this to work anyway,” she admits, “so don’t beat yourself up.”

Loki sighs sharply and kicks a stray bottle angrily, “I wish I knew what I was  _ here  _ for, then I could work backwards. Instead--” he waves his hands outwards, “--all I have is  _ this.”  _

Which is nothing.

 

 

 

“Loki!” The man’s eyes widen with relief and he moves forward, “I thought…” he trails, unable to finish the thought and wraps his arms around Loki’s stiff frame. Brunnhilde feels her eyes widen.

This man knows who Loki is.

Who Loki  _ really  _ is.

The man pulls back after a moment, gripping his shoulders tightly. “Where have you  _ been?  _

  
  
  
PLAN FOR STORY:

 

**-When Loki is kicked out of the Bifrost, he hits his head really hard and gets amnesia**

**-Knife gutted deeply into his chest**

**-Brunnhilde finds him and decides to get him on his feet before selling him to the Grandmaster**

- **Loki can’t remember much, but enough to make her hesitate**

-Robbers break in and attempt to steal Loki to sell him, and Brunnhilde stops them

-They go back to the scrapper field to jar his memory and hide from the police, but find Thor

-Thor excited and relieved that Loki’s okay, but Loki is painfully tense and when he says that he doesn’t know who Thor is, Brunnhilde obedience disks him

-Plans to leave him, but Loki says he recognizes him, and Brunnhilde’s like “ughhhhh” before dragging him back to the ship. She handcuffs him and Thor wakes up unhappy, attempts to speak with Loki, but Brunnhilde is possessive and like “nope”.

-Thor manages to get Loki to recall his name, but Loki flinches back and says that Thor hates him or something to alike. 

-Thor says he’s prince of Asgard, and their sister is going to kill everyone

-Brunnhilde succumbs to an anxiety attack, and hides in the bathroom until Loki arrives to offer comfort 

-Brunnhilde wants to check to make sure the wound is healing well, and Thor sees the scars and is confused, but Loki can’t offer any affirmative answers except “this one came for you”.

-Loki goes to bed and Brunnhilde drags Thor into the kitchen to talk, assures him that if he does anything to hurt Loki in anyway she’ll personally remove his sternum. They briefly talk about what happened, Thor explains about Odin

-Brunnhilde’s not surprised, says he dumped this all onto Thor

-Thor tries to defend him, but Brunnhilde shuts him up and sends him to bed as well

-frustrated that she got herself pulled into Asgardian drama again 

-Brunnhilde goes to buy supplies, but gets caught by the police instead. Late with her delivery, and hadn’t checked in with the records. Inquiring of her escape where’s she’s like, “me!?  _ Me!!!???”  _

-They slam down the door and drag Loki and Thor out into the open

-Dragged back to the palace in chains, the Grandmaster meets them and says that he’s disappointed in Brunnhilde, and that she knows what happens to everyone he’s disappointed with

-Brunnhilde says she can make it up to him

-Grandmaster’s like, well, I mean, you didn’t fail me before so...sure

-Grandmaster looks Loki and Thor over, asks for a general assessment of their skills

-Thor’s like “fighting, and redecorating”

-Loki says he doesn’t know

-Grandmaster teases him about it, and then turns to Brunnhilde asking why she didn’t come to him for the memory drugs, “given that you so frequently take them. Alcohol really doesn’t do much for whatever you are, huh?” 

-Brunnhilde not about to admit she’d been stealing them?

-Loki put into cleaning and Thor fighting, Brunnhilde thrown into the streets and told she can earn her apartment and ship back if she brings him three champions.

-Brunnhilde wonders what to do for a little, then decides that they need to leave completely, and she needs the big guns. Breaks into the palace to talk to Hulk and he agrees to help. Leaves to find Loki and Thor

-Finds Thor first, being geared up for a fight and tells him of her plan, Thor’s like “this is terrible”

-Brunnhilde annoyed, but can’t find Loki before the match begins. As Hulk invades the arena, she hacks into the data base to find him in the medical room and sees that he’s being injected full of the memory drug

-Pulls him out of it, and Loki sluggish before he throws up blood everywhere 

-Asks where Thor is

-Brunnhilde burns the notes and drags them both out of the building towards Thor and Bruce, confused on who Bruce is, but they run to the city, get the Quinjet working and shakily make their way towards Asgard

-No return journey anywhere

-They get to Asgard, Thor says he’ll find and distract Hela as they get to the citizens

-Find heimdall first

-He tells them that they’re planning an evacuation

-Loki tells him to wait, insists that there is no purpose to it beyond getting themselves backed into a corner

-Heimdall says Hela is undefeatable

-Brunnhilde asks if she can withstand having her head removed. Admits that none of her soldiers tried that. Heimdall says he doesn’t know. Brunnhilde takes Bruce and Loki back to the palace as Thor lightning zaps Hela into the middle of the street

-As she’s disoriented, Brunnhilde lifts a sword to her head

-Asks if she wants to change, 

-Hela says she doesn’t know how, and odin’s memory won’t let her

-Attempts to gut Loki, and Brunnhilde beheads her as Bruce shoots her with a gun-thing

-Loki steals the eternal frame from the soldiers, and they go find Thor

-Thor bleeding out on balcony, Loki panics and says he remembers and Thor can’t die now, Thor says he was stabbed over thirteen times, and he doesn’t think it matters much

-Bruce, with Loki, save Thor’s life, and they return to find the citizens where Thor takes up the crown of Asgard and promises to defend and protect them. 

-END

****


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of my mental health, every request that I was working on and had made progress in is going to be posted here. I can't find the energy to finish them right now, but maybe some day.
> 
> Requested by: Tamuril2
> 
> Basic overview of idea: Phil and Loki become friends.

* * *

 

The first thing Phil really processes through the haze of drugs and half lidded eyes is that the room he's in is white. It's not a gentle cream like he's seen other's attempt with success, but a pure white that aggravates the aching in his head. His breath is drawn in raggedly through his clenched lungs, but he knows he's not injured there— _ not anymore, though everyone keeps telling him otherwise— _ so he's not certain why it aches so much.

Actually, correction:  _ everything _ aches.

His mind is sluggish. Details of where he is and how he got here are lost to him. He grapples with it, feeling an irrational panic.  _ Calm down; you aren't going to be a help to anyone if you're hyperventilating.  _ He needs to assess the situation, he can't give away his position if he is captured. Captured? Why would he be  _ captured?  _ What was he doing? How did he get here?

Where  _ is _ here?

He needs a gun.

Where are his weapons!?

Breathe.

_ Listen. _

There's the faint susurrate of a vent releasing air into the room, a quiet sloshing sound, a ticking clock, and someone's breath. The breathing makes him pause, but he forces himself to keep steady. Faking unconsciousness.

Their breath isn't deep enough to indicate sleep, which means that he's being watched. Great. His fingers twitch subconsciously, searching for a weapon, but he knows that he won't find any. He's on a cot—likely a mattress—with a thin sheet over his hospital gown. Hospital. Medical, maybe?

This changes nothing. Admittedly, it wouldn't be the first time he's woken up in an enemy's medical.

So he stays still, maintaining the facade. Sometimes—that was definitely a clothing rustle. The person is moving. What are they doing?

Despite himself, his muscles seize and his eyes squeeze shut tighter. His advantage is over now, if they were watching him, they know he's awake.  _ Idiot. _

"Coulson." The voice isn't exactly warm, but it is softer than usual. Usual. He knows it? Yes, he does. It takes him a second to dig through the mush surrounding his thoughts to pull out a face and name.

Fury.

He was supposed to be doing something for Fury. He  _ needs  _ the pharmaceutical to  _ stop.  _ He can't focus on anything—he  _ hates  _ sedatives. Fury.  _ What  _ was it he was supposed to be doing? He can pull out flashes of a memory: standing on a building as it rained and gunfire, distant fire and someone yelling, but that's it. There should be more, he knows this, but there's all these  _ drugs. _

Phil remains quiet, but his sense of obligation draws him forward before he can feign unconsciousness for much longer. With more care to his eyes this time than previously, Phil blinks slowly. The room is still the awful white without any art—just a twelve hour clock on the far wall—which means that he's likely in a S.H.I.E.L.D. medical, but not the Helicarrier. The walls are a steal gray there.

His vision is fuzzy, but he still turns his head slowly to his left, where the voice originated from.

Director Fury is sitting in a plastic, foldable chair with a cup of coffee in one hand, a folder resting on his lap. He isn't looking at either, his gaze focused on Phil. It's  _ then _ that he realizes that his chest is wrapped almost uncomfortably tight in thick gauze. And his feet.

The memory of the fire pulls closer.

Phil swallows along his dry throat and licks his split lips. His voice is raspy: "Sir?"

What happened? What was he  _ doing?  _ What was it that Fury wanted? He was doing something for him—yes, that sounds right. But  _ what? _

Fury leans back a little, and, though his face is dissembled, Phil knows him a little better than to be fooled by it. The way his stance is resting assures him of Fury's great irritation and silence furthers this. Anger isn't quite the word he would use, simply because of the coffee. If Fury intended to yell at him, he wouldn't have brought something to drink.

Has Phil been here for a while?

He just—he needs to  _ grab  _ at the memory of the smoke so he can parse it, despite how his mind quietly pleads with him not to. He needs to  _ remember.  _ Phil releases a quiet breath to steady himself, and then closes his eyes and tries to focus. There was smoke and the gunshots. He was on a rooftop. He turned to face someone in hand-to-hand and they shoved him off the edge. The area he landed was cushioned, but not void of the flames.

The building.

He was searching for Fury's weapon.

He didn't find it.

He hasn't found it.

But he was closer; he's been clearing the areas for it for weeks now and he's almost to the end. He was so  _ close.  _ Curses. He doesn't have  _ time  _ to be in hospital, he has to find Fury's weapon because they're moving it again soon and he'll miss his window. He may have already done so.

Up.

Up, up, up.

Phil makes it about four inches before Fury's hand shoves him back onto the mattress. "Stay there," Fury commands, his voice is void of argument. Phil slumps against the cot in defeat, and then tilts his head to see the director a little better.

"Sir," he swallows, but it doesn't help the Sahara that is his throat, "I need to leave. I'm going to miss the window—"

" _ Coulson."  _ Fury's voice is lacking any amusement. He sounds pulled to his wits end. "Stop."

Phil snaps his jaw shut.

Everything still hurts.

Fury is quiet for a moment longer, and then gently tosses the open folder onto Phil's lap. "Care to explain this?" He questions. Phil picks up the yellow edge with an unsteady hand and has to squint in order to see the page better. It's a medical examination; and, more importantly,  _ his.  _ It details the injuries he's currently facing and Phil gives a halfhearted glance over them. A few wicked bruises, and a strained muscle or two, but most of it relates to the burns on his upper back and feet.

Phil gnaws on his inner lip, internally releasing a sigh. Moving is not going to be pleasant the next few weeks, but he'll shoulder through. He always does.

Phil looks up at the director and untangles his tongue from the roof of his mouth, "I…"

Fury's eyebrow lifts.

Call him a little cocky, or maybe plain stupid, but he didn't expect it to end with a visit to medical. No—that's the wrong word choice, and he's a stickler for details—he didn't expect to land in medical, because  _ nothing is wrong with him.  _ He was fine before it happened. He  _ is  _ fine currently. There is no real reason for him to be here; he's wasting precious time.

"The building caught fire," Phil explains slowly, trying to draw his jumbled thoughts together. The antiseptic smell is suddenly stark against anything else. "But I hadn't searched it completely yet, so I pushed through."

Fury sighs quietly and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Phil's hands fist.

"Coulson," Fury's voice is level, but Phil can tell that he'd rather be yelling, "when I asked you to search for this power source, I didn't mean put everything else to the side until you find it."

He...hasn't. Did he? No. He hasn't. Fury called it a high priority, and Phil  _ needed  _ the work because he was going insane. He's not a Level Two anymore, and everyone treating him like he might simultaneously give out is driving him mad. He's fine now. It's been a little over six months since the Attack on New York. The wound is nothing more than a white scar now.

He can do field work.

He just wishes people would agree to  _ let  _ him.

Yes, there were some close calls after he was released from medical, but it's been  _ months  _ since any of that. Fury gave him this assignment a little over seven weeks ago and he poured himself into it. It's been nice to be busy. To be  _ useful. _

"I wasn't." Phil counters, shifting some on the mattress.

Fury's expression says otherwise. " _ Two  _ of your co-workers reported that you nearly passed out on them—" Phil can't quite repress his wince, "—and a majority of them said that you haven't been taking care of basic necessities like sleep, or eating."

"It wasn't important." Phil argues quickly. It  _ wasn't.  _ They got in the way of the mission.

Fury's eyebrows lower, " _ Phil." _

"It wasn't." Phil repeats, his hands fidgeting, "I cleared off most of the bases in half the time that you—"

"This isn't about you setting some record!" Fury argues, his voice has lost the collected edge, "I wouldn't have given you the assignment if I knew that it would set you on a path of self destruction!"

Phil chokes a little, "I'm not—"

"Your injuries," Fury cuts, "were relatively minor, but because of everything  _ else  _ that you've been lacking, they've had to keep you under for a few days. Whatever window you had is closed now because of your idiocy."

Great.

Now he has to start all over.

Phil bites on the curse that wants to slip out his lips.

This is going to take  _ weeks,  _ and tracking HYDRA is never a pleasant thing. At first, the mission seemed to be like any other. Fury asked him to track down some sort of "power source or weapon" that he'd received word of by a trusted source a few months ago, but the source lost track of where the power source/weapon was until he received word HYDRA has it. Apparently it has enough power to fuel a dozen Tsar bombs.

Fury prioritized finding it, and Phil has been tearing down known HYDRA bases with vigor for the last seven weeks. Everything was going  _ fine  _ until the shoot out. He wasn't expecting as many guns as there were. He wasn't prepared for the intense firefight.

He'll prepare for that next time. There's still twenty bases of the forty-seven he was given. Fury said that he expected the mission to last months with the limited windows of time to search HYDRA, but Phil has shortened the time frame considerably.

Phil turns to him, "I'm sorry. I'll do better. I—"

"You're grounded."

Something seizes in his chest. He stares at Fury blankly, trying to make sure he heard right. "...I'm sorry?"

"Grounded." Fury repeats, "I'm pulling you off of the search."

"Wait—!"

"And you're going home. Not your S.H.I.E.L.D barracks. I know you have an apartment somewhere in New York. When you're out of medical, I don't want to see or hear from you for ten days." Fury says firmly.

Phil's mouth freely drops.

_ What?  _ This isn't what he expected. He's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, running mission after mission without breaks is sort of part of the job description. He's taken days off, but usually only after he was severely injured and  _ had  _ to. He doesn't just...take breaks. He hasn't since he was a Level One or something. It's been  _ years. _

Phil's first instinct is to protest, but he finds that he can't quite get himself to speak properly. All that comes out of his throat is strange squeaking noise. He snaps his jaw shut with humiliation, and Fury sighs quietly.

"I know you've been working hard recently, but you're wearing yourself thin." Fury addresses, his tone even again, "And you're going to get yourself killed. You're getting reckless. Until you can get your head on straight, you're not coming back here—so, let me correct myself: ten days at a  _ minimum." _

Phil wants to protest, childishly stomp his feet and yell, but he doesn't. He's beyond that. He wouldn't have gotten anywhere in S.H.I.E.L.D. by shouting. He's spent to many long years as an agent to lose his calm this quickly; but it doesn't mean he  _ likes  _ this.

Why couldn't he have seen that fist coming? It would have stopped  _ all  _ of this.

Benched. He's been  _ benched.  _ He's  _ never  _ been benched before. The ten days don't even start  _ now  _ unless, by some miracle, he's released from medical today. He'll be sitting and twiddling his thumbs when he  _ could  _ be doing so many other things—like finding that stupid weapon.

"I can't just sit and do  _ nothing."  _ Phil argues, his voice sounds desperate to his own ears.

_ Pathetic. _

Fury rises to his feet, "You can, and you will." His voice is resolute, declaring the end of the discussion. Phil's stomach clenched tightly with discomfort, but he schools his frustrated expression.

"I'm going to go get a nurse and let them know you're awake." Fury says calmly and then his fingers fidget around his coffee cup, as if debating whether or not to ask a question. He doesn't, and, without another word, exits the room pulling the door closed behind him.

Phil digs his teeth into the side of his gums.

This is ridiculous.

He's not even...the injuries aren't that bad. He'll be walking in a few days at most.  _ It's not that bad.  _ He'll get better. He's going to be fine. Fury didn't need to  _ bench  _ him. Stupid. Inane. Pointless. It hasn't been that bad. It  _ hasn't. _

Curse that stupid fall!

Phil waits in slow silence for a little over four minutes before the door is opened by an older woman. She's dressed in clean scrubs, but they're a shade of blue that's almost an eyesore. Her graying blonde hair is tucked up into a bun and it gently frames her aging face. Phil would peg her in her mid fifties.

"Ah!" She says, with a perky intone that immediately makes Phil wary of her. "Mr. Coulson! Good to see you're awake." She moves across the room and gathers the folder from where he left it next to his legs and rests it on the bedside table. She checks the IV stationed in his arm and then performs various other tests. When she's finished, she grabs the wheeling stool and sits on it, a clipboard in hand.

Phil hates clipboards.

"Dr. Harrison should be in shortly," she announces, "I'm just going to ask you a few questions before he gets here, is that okay?"

No.

He wants to  _ leave. _

Phil gives a slight incline of his head.

"Alright. These are going to be a little personal, but I need you to be honest with me." The nurse says, clicking her pen.

"Of course," Phil fibs. If the nurse notices, which he doubts, she doesn't comment.

She turns to her clipboard. "Dr. Harrison noticed that you're breaching malnutrition and that you're severely dehydrated. Do you have any particular reason for this?"

Phil's fists clench around the blanket. He doesn't want to talk about this with her. He doesn't want to talk about it period. His mind is buzzing rapidly, but the silence is almost worse. "No," Phil answers after a second.

The nurse looks doubtful, but nonetheless writes something down, "Did you feel faint or dizzy at all before you passed out in Director Fury's office?"

Phil's body tenses, but he does his best to hide it. Yes. He did. For hours before hand. Long before he dragged himself out of the flames to his awaiting ride, long before he started the infiltration. Dizzy, sick, and nauseous. He barely made it to the director's office with his aching feet and shoulders, got about three words in of his report, and then the world darkened and he fell forward.

He didn't hit the desk, but he's pretty sure he was close.

Now the memory is barely anything beyond humiliating.

"No," Phil answers, stiffly. "I'm fine."

The nurse looks a little flustered, and she taps her pen, "Mr. Coulson, your medical examination proves otherwise. You must feel awful."

He does.

The nurse opens her mouth to say something else, but the door opens and Dr. Harrison, or the man Phil  _ assumes  _ is Dr. Harrison, steps into the room. He's a little over six feet with a receding hairline and a large pair of glasses that don't match his face shape well.

"Martha," Dr. Harrison addresses the nurse, "thank you. I'll take it from here."

Martha huffs a little and rises to her feet, handing him the clipboard. She gives him a final glance before she exits the room. Dr. Harrison takes her vacated seat and flips through some of the pages for nearly a minute, lips thin. He pushes his obnoxious glasses up his nose and looks up at him. "I'm assigning you painkillers and sleeping meds—you don't need to voice your opposition, I get it often. This isn't a suggestion, Mr. Coulson. You  _ need  _ these to survive the next few weeks."

Phil stares at him.

No.

He won't rely on drugs to fulfill his needs, thanks. He has things to do. "No," Phil says.

Dr. Harrison sighs, "Mr. Coulson—"

" _ No." _

Dr. Harrison pauses, "Mr. Coulson, listen, I get that you're wary, but the strain you're putting on your heart—"

An idea occurs to him and he sits up a little straighter, "No. The  _ only  _ way I'll agree to it is if you let me go from medical today."

Dr. Harrison shifts and looks uncomfortable. He clicks the pen several times, thinking. Phil remains quiet. If Dr. Harrison lets him go today then Fury's stupid counter will start and he'll be halfway through day one of ten. He's not going to sit here for any longer than he has to.

The silence is thick.

Phil feels no need to break it.

Dr. Harrison must realize that he's serious, because he mumbles something under his breath before scribbling on one of the sheets of paper. Phil gives an inward smirk of satisfaction. "Fine," Dr. Harrison avers, his tone nothing happy, "pick up your prescriptions at a local drug store. What's the address?"

Phil, because he's not an idiot, rattles of something more than an hour from his apartment. Yes, Dr. Harrison is a S.H.I.E.L.D. issued doctor, but Phil has had far to many people he trusts stab him in the back. He's learned to be wary. Wariness keeps you alive, and the person who can make it the longest without dying usually benefits. Besides, he has  _ no  _ intention of picking up the prescriptions anyway.

Dr. Harrison scribbles the address down on the paper and then leaves the file out the necessary paperwork. Martha returns with a change of clothes and his personal possessions, unhooks him from the IV, checks the bandaging around his burned feet and upper back, and then leaves with a frown etched so deeply into her face she could've used a chisel.

Phil, with effort, dresses himself as best he can between his burning shoulders and aching feet, tugs on the shoes, and pulls on the jacket. It's civilian clothing, but since Phil's been banned from S.H.I.E.L.D. for the next ten days, it makes a bitter sort of sense. He shoves his phone and a handful of small weapons into his pockets, straps his gun at his waist and quietly awaits Dr. Harrison's return, trying not to be sick all over everything.

Thirty minutes later, Phil's taking his first hobbling steps out into open air since he arrived at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base three days ago. The air is smoggy, bitterly cold, but more crisp than anything in the hospital is, and Phil is relieved. It's a little past two PM and Phil distantly notes that he's hungry, but he ignores it in favor of getting home.

Because the subway is further than the open road and his feet are killing him, Phil waves a taxi down. He has the driver, an older man with a strong opinion on sports, drop him off a few blocks from his apartment building and begins the long journey of staggering there. People give him odd looks, but none question him or offer to help.

He's fine with that.

The sun is beginning to set when he finally spots his apartment building in the distance. His fingers are going numb, but the building's bright red colors are familiar. Not comforting. Just familiar. Phil's only been here a handful of times in the last seven weeks and spent even less time there beforehand. He's owned it for years, but paying rent for it is more of an obligation than anything else.

Phil blows out a breath into the chill air, shuffling through the light snowfall that's iced the sidewalk. The sky is overcast, but Phil's pretty sure that it's going to withhold snow for a few more days. Phil will probably still be here when it happens because he was benched.

_ Benched. _

He has the key, right? Phil's step staggers a little and he pats down his pockets, but he can't find anything remotely key shaped. A cold feeling drops to his stomach. Oh, this is stupid. He's a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, prepared for anything, right? Nope, not for getting inside his apartment. He's not even sure where his key is. He was renting a hotel when he went to Russia for the last mission—so he didn't need his key. Yeah, alright, he is clueless as to its location.

Well. This is embarrassing.

Phil bites down hard on his inner lip and releases a frustrated breath, digging his fingers further into his pockets. It's cold and he wants to lay down. Every part of his body aches.

The desire to sink to the sidewalk and not move is strong.

Bloody—

_ Where is the key!? _

Phil jerks his head upwards suddenly as a loud crash rings out on his right. His spine lurches and his hand goes for his gun. He presses his lips together tightly and squints into the shadowed area. Beside the apartment complex he unluckily calls home, there's a parking garage; the space between the two buildings creates a large alleyway. Admittedly, the car garage looks like a five star hotel compared to the apartment; it's almost ridiculous. The designers must get a kick whenever they come down this street.

Phil has hardly thought about the alleyway since he scoped the apartment building out over four years ago. Now, though, paranoia is rising like a steady tide and he frowns before moving forward slowly.

He keeps a firm grip on his gun.

His footsteps are silent across the dirty sidewalk and he breaks off from it standing in front of the alley. He doesn't immediately spot anything and quietly sighs. It was probably just a cat. There's nothing—

Phil freezes as he hears a voice: "—ck the money." The accent is a thick New York slang, and Phil places what's happening in a little under a second. Mugging. Nothing unusual in New York, especially not in the winter. The weather is beyond frigid this year, and Phil can't honestly say he's surprised. It isn't the first time he's come across this, but it still disgusts him.

He can handle stopping a mugger, can't he?

Just because he was benched doesn't mean he's useless. He can still help. His body protests voluminously, but Phil ignores it in favor of pulling out his gun.

"C'mon, man, you really don't want to do this," the mugger says, his voice is gaining frustration. There isn't a response from the victim, instead, a sickening sound of a boot meeting flesh; something thunks against the apartment building loudly. Someone coughs weakly.

Phil moves down the alleyway slowly, painfully aware of burns feet.

As he steps closer, he realizes that there's three people (two men and a woman) grouped over a fourth who's curled up in a fetal position next to the wall. The body doesn't look like it's going to be putting up a fight any time soon, which settles his resolve. Phil quickly accounts for the change in numbers, and the man that Phil as quietly dubbed the leader kicks the muggie in the stomach violently.

"You made your choice, you little rat," the leader says and draws a knife.

Adrenaline rushes through him, but he quells it and raises his pistol, pressing it against the back of the man's head and audibly clicks the safety off. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Phil says, keeping his tone even. The other two in the group visibility draw back with surprise, but the leader stiffens and lifts his hands.

"Whoa, now—" he starts.

"Move." Phil commands without sympathy. The mugger slowly shifts to the side when Phil digs the muzzle of the weapon into the back of his head further. The other two stare at him with narrowed eyes and Phil keeps his face even. His shoulder is screaming.

His feet are on fire.

He's going to be  _ sick. _

"Now, now," one of the other two says, her voice is slightly pitched, but Phil can hear anger. "Let's not get testy."

Please.

Phil stares at her for a second, "It would be within your best interests to leave." He assures.

"Ha!" The woman mutters, "You don't know half of what this," she lightly kicks their victims leg, electing a moan from the person, "little piece of trash did to us. He  _ stole  _ from us."

Did he now?

Great.

Thieves  _ and  _ wrathful muggers—No, Phil corrects as he spots matching tattoos on their necks—gang members.

"That doesn't justify killing him. Get out of here or I'm going to call the police." Phil threatens. None appear to take him seriously, so Phil digs his phone out of his pocket with one hand and levels the gun towards the leader's brain.

Unless given so, he has no reason, or plans, to shoot him; but they don't know that.

"You want a fight, pretty boy?" The other man asks, cracking his knuckles.

"Not particularly." Phil assures.

When the other two make a move to advance, Phil lightly pulls pushes on the trigger. Not enough to set off the gun, but enough to make them pause, "Let me remind you that between us, which one has the gun?" Phil questions, swallowing bile that builds in his throat.

"C'mon guys, it's not worth it," the leader says, "let's go. We still have a few spots to hit." The words appear to appease the other two because they slink past Phil with obvious distaste and the leader slowly takes steps away from the barrel of Phil's gun. Phil doesn't say anything, watching them exit the alleyway.

As they leave his line of sight, his body slumps with relief. Oh,  _ everything hurts. _

Phil sighs under his breath and calls 911 anyway, quietly wishing there was better timing for this. He wants to go to bed, and he needs to find his key. "911, what's your emergency?"

"Hi," Phil says and moves towards the victim, flicking the safety on and stuffing his gun back at his waist. "I'd like to report a mugging."

"Are you alright?" The dispatcher asks.

"No, no, not mine," Phil corrects and kneels, gently tapping the victim's shoulder. They don't react, limp as a fish out of water. Phil does a quick assessment. It's a man, dressed in nothing better than some thin clothing with a jacket that's far to large on their frame and no shoes. Dark hair is tangled across the neck and head, but Phil doesn't need to see his face to know he's out cold. The blood slowly leaking into the raven locks reveals enough about the state of his head.

Concussion; at the least.

"Who is the victim?"

Unknown.

Phil pulls the lax hand away from the man's face, trying to determine how bad the damage is, but stops. His breath hisses out between his teeth slowly. No.

_ No, no, no. _

Not now. Not  _ here.  _ Not  _ him.  _ This can't be happening. It's not... _ it's not... _

_ He can't be here. _

He's in prison.

He's not on Earth.

Thor would have mentioned if he—

Phil blinks, trying desperately to  _ will  _ this away, but when he opens his eyes the scene hasn't changed. Loki is still slump against the wall with blood and sweat leaking into his hairline and bruises forming along his gaunt, sickly face.

Words are frozen in his throat.

No.

He's not ready for— _ Loki wasn't supposed to come back.  _ He's serving his sentence on Asgard. Thor said that he was—

"Sir?" The dispatchers voice has gained a level of concern.

Phil's mind seizes.

What the heck does he  _ do?  _ He can't very well  _ tell  _ her that Loki was the one who was mugged ( _ mugged?),  _ nor that he's here. He can call S.H.I.E.L.D., but Phil knows that Fury was serious. He'll ignore all calls until his ten day ostracism is over. And beyond that—he's not sure if he  _ wants  _ to. Loki looks...he looks cadaverous. Sickly.

He knows that if he calls in the authorities, they'll completely ignore that.

He doesn't know why  _ he's  _ not ignoring that.

But something is pushing at him quietly to help, and he's not certain that he can shove it to the side. It's pressing and it's  _ persistent.  _ And besides that, he wants to know what Loki's doing here and if he calls in S.H.I.E.L.D., it will get whisked away from his hands and he won't touch it until ten days from now. He's not going to be uselessly staring at his apartment walls for the next ten days.

Phil stares at Loki's bloodied face for another moment and inhales slowly.

No.

No.

And no.

_ He shouldn't, he really should not.  _ The idea is beyond sensible, it's stupid and driven by a man half asleep from blood loss and pain so intense he can't see straight. It's  _ stupid.  _ Exhale.

Inhale.

Loki deserves this.

Phil stares at the Asgardian. His pale face, the blood…

Exhale.

He's going to do something. For S.H.I.E.L.D.. It has nothing to do with Loki's state,  _ only  _ to do with what he's doing here. He'll figure out why and then get rid of him if he has to. But first, answers. He's going to get them...Even if that means taking a in-house prisoner in.

Fury will be grateful when the ten days are up, and realize how serious Phil is about this. He's not weak, he can handle it. No one will have to bench him again. He'll discover why Loki's here, write them down on a sheet of paper in  _ bullet points  _ and hand it in to his boss. Yeah. He can do that. For now…

Oh, gosh,  _ what is he thinking!? _

He should just leave Loki here.

He  _ should;  _ but he isn't. He's going to hold Loki in his apartment. The thought sounds completely ludicrous when it takes form, but he can't find in himself to push it to the side.

"Sir?" The dispatcher repeats and Phil is drawn back to the present. "Are you alright?"

"Huh—oh, yes, sorry, I saw a mugging. The muggers got away and the victim ran off before I could help. The muggers mentioned that they were going to hit a few other spots tonight and I was concerned." The lie tastes acidic, but Phil doesn't care.

"I see," the woman says calmly, "thank you for letting us know. Can I have an address?"

Phil rattles off the apartment's location along with a basic description of the gang members, and then ends the call. He looks back down at Loki and purses his lips together. Alright. He can do this. It's just ten days. He's done harder things before.  _ But none of that involved keeping a super villain as a house guest in your home,  _ the more pragmatic part of his mind reminds.

Phil shoves it to the side and focuses on the Asgardian for a moment, searching for any signs of deception. Loki's breath is falling and rising in a low rattle, the occasional moan slipping out through his split, bloodied lips. Loki looks  _ ghastly.  _ Phil has seen more than enough people close to death than he really cares for, and it's because of this that he knows that Loki  _ should  _ be going to an ER. (Not that anyone would  _ take  _ him). Details of how he ended up in this state are a mystery. Phil was only here for the last few swings the gang members took.

Didn't the lady mention that Loki robbed them?

_ Loki,  _ a man who flared his ego around,  _ robbed  _ someone? She was probably mistaken.

Phil frowns a little and shifts his weight to take pressure off what he can. Alright, first things first, he needs to get into his apartment; and he has to take Loki with him. He has his lock picking kit on him, so getting into the apartment won't be impossible. A little less convenient than a key, absolutely, but not impossible.

Getting Loki there…( _ what is he doing!?) _ that will be less simple. Phil pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to ground himself. He wants to vomit and everything within him is just— _ wrong.  _ It feels horrendous.  _ Breathe.  _ Out for two, in for two, out for—

Phil, after some maneuvering, manages to get Loki to outside his apartment's door. To be honest, Phil can't even really remember much of the journey here. His mind is a haze from the lingering pain killers (maybe morphine) and it's making everything fuzzy. Phil blows out a breath and kneels beside his door, quickly picking the lock with ease that he's gained over years of doing so.

He should probably be concerned that it takes him under a minute, but he's to exhausted. Mentally, physically—any other way there is to be exhausted. He blows out a sharp breath and quietly pleads that his neighbors won't take this opportunity to venture from their homes as he grabs Loki's thin body and pulls him into the apartment, closing the door with his foot behind him, and flicks it locked.

His apartment smells thickly of a cinnamon scent that he's never been able to remove despite his weak efforts, but he ignores it in favor of dragging Loki towards the couch, and, after some effort and his shoulders rippling with pain, he dumps the Asgardian onto the piece of furniture.

Okay.

Yes.

The world is spinning.

Phil's hands fist. His mind blanks again and suddenly he's standing in the kitchen digging through a drawer and he doesn't know why. Phil frowns a little and he blows out a sharp breath, shuffling through the drawer and hoping that by doing so, he'll recall the reason.

He needs to sleep.

Phil, after standing there for a little over a minute, remembers that he's looking for a pair of handcuffs. He picks them out from among the various kitchen utensils and returns back to where Loki is slumped against his furniture and stops, digging his heels into the carpet.

_ What is he doing? _

This is insane.

Does it  _ really  _ matter—?

Stop.

Phil moves forward and tugs Loki's hands behind his back, locking a cuff into place. Loki's wrists are jutting bone and Phil realizes with a slight jolt how  _ ragged  _ Loki looks. He's clearly gaunt and beyond the blood that's clumped in his hair, the bruises dotting his visible skin don't look very pleasant. The sheer amount of red mattered in his hair is concerning...Should he perform first aid?

The thought nearly makes him laugh out loud. He can't imagine himself dabbing at Loki's head despite how awful it looks. Loki's Asgardian. Phil's  _ seen  _ Thor get crushed by a building and walk less than twenty four hours later. A little head wound won't kill him.

Phil takes Loki's other hand and clicks the cuff around the pale wrist, then his eyes narrow a little. What is  _ that? _

He warily pulls up Loki's sleeve a little, revealing the intricate burn pattern on his forearm. They look like some sort of runes, but it's not in any dialect he's familiar with. Asgardian, maybe? He still has no idea what Loki's doing here, and... _ this  _ could have something to do with that. The burns seem to follow his veins up his arms and Phil drops the sleeve.

He can deal with that later.

Right now he's so dizzy he can't think good. Correctly. Whatever the word is.

He rechecks to make sure that the cuffs are locked then hobbles away from the living room. When he enters the safety of his bedroom, Phil allows the agony to flicker across his face. His feet. Oh, gosh,  _ his feet.  _ Running through those flames for so long was  _ stupid. _

Phil stumbles to the bed and collapses on the mattress, hissing sharply between his teeth. Phil pulls off his shoes and tugs off the socks with some effort and grimaces as he sees the state of the gauze. The burns didn't pass second degree according to his medical chart, but they still blistered. And he  _ popped  _ every single one of the blisters, or, at least most of them. The yellow puss has stained the white cloth along with the deep red of blood.

His thoughts are dizzying, but he's here enough to realize that walking was quite foolish.

Everything he's done today was stupid.  _ Why did he—!?  _ He still has his gun. Loki is easy prey at the moment; he can end this now. No. The thought makes him strangely sick. He's not an assassin. He's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and the only deaths that are caused by his hand are in self defense. Besides, he's  _ going  _ to prove Fury wrong.

He didn't need to be benched.

He  _ does _ need to vomit.

Phil spends the next few minutes beside the toilet bowl, heaving, and pretends that he isn't as miserable as he feels. He takes a cold shower, dresses in loose clothing, and crawls into bed with the intent to sleep, but finds his mind is buzzing.

After nearly an hour of sitting in bed, Phil squeezes his eyes shut and forces his breathing to steady. As his mind finally begins to settle, he quietly prays to anyone listening that this doesn't go off like a time bomb.

000o000

He hardly sleeps through the night, and when he finally does manage to awaken (after the realization that he forgot to set an alarm), he's more exhausted than before he went to bed. Every limb, joint, muscle, or other is quietly petitioning that he hibernate until spring, and he can't say that he'd be to against that.

He has things to do.

Actually, he doesn't. Not until Fury lifts the grounding, but who knows when that will be?

He can cheerfully go back to bed and ignore any previous obligations he had for the day like seeing if—Phil jerks into a sitting position, throwing off the comforter that always been lumpy in uncomfortable places away from his lap.

Loki is in his apartment.

_ Loki. _

What was he thinking? This is more pressing than his wallowing, Loki is here, and he needs to make sure he  _ stays _ here. He's not going to be responsible for Loki breaking downtown because he was conveniently located near it.

Up, up, up.

Phil swings his legs over the side of the bed, and, as his feet touch the ground, a low hiss escapes through his teeth. Right. The popped blisters. It hasn't lessened much since yesterday. That's good to note. He needs to find disinfectant cream and get some sort of bandages to wrap around the foot. Feet. Both of them are damaged, not just one. Does he have any fluffy socks he can wear for the next few days? Considering the fact that the words "fluffy socks" thrown into the same sentence is almost enough to jar him, he's going to guess no.

Maybe he should have thought about this before he went to bed, so he could have had it prepared for right now.

Alas.

Phil grits his teeth and rises to his feet slowly, trying not to wince, and then realizes there's no point to hiding it. He openly flinches and makes small noises of discomfort as he tracks down some clothing, and digs through his sock drawer. To his amazement, he  _ doe _ s have a pair of big fluffy socks and he's pretty sure that they originate from Natasha. They went on a mission to Oymyakon, Russia together several years ago where he admitted— _ once _ —that his feet were cold and Natasha showed up at his apartment with a large box of socks and a innocent smile when they got back to the States.

The fluff gives the illusion of standing on gentle foam, and awkwardly pushes itself against his bandages.

Phil isn't too keen on it, but it feels better than trying to hobble around on bare feet. He's not going anywhere today, so he doesn't bother wish shoes and grabs his gun from under his pillow, stuffing it into the pocket of his sweatpants.

Loki tries to run, and Phil's biggest problem will be explaining to his neighbors and the police that the noise they heard was a car backfiring, not a gun going off.

He flicks on his phone to see what time it is, and, stupidly, if Fury has contacted him to let him know that the grounding was lifted. A declaration of "just kidding!—come back in", but there's nothing. It's a little past nine AM, and Phil sighs at the realization.

Half the morning is wasted.

Not that he has anything  _ to  _ do—save deal with Loki—but it's habit now.

Phil stands in front of the door for a long second, gathering himself together. He didn't hear anything through the night, so he's  _ assuming _ that Loki is still unconscious, but he doesn't know for certain. If he walks out and there's a pair of handcuffs sitting innocently on the couch and a distinct lack of the Asgardian, that will answer that question.

He's not really sure he wants to deal with the paperwork that will cause.

Because  _ paperwork  _ will be the most pressing of his worries if that does happen.

Phil digs his teeth into his tongue and grabs the handle. He's been shot at before, he's been  _ stabbed  _ before, why is this so hard? He has the upper hand...he  _ probably  _ has the upper hand. Phil just doesn't  _ know.  _ Loki is an unknown variable. That's why any step he makes  _ has _ to be made with the following mile in mind.

This was a terrible idea.

But it's a little late to back out now.

_ Coulson. Go. _

Phil shoves open the door to his bedroom and hesitantly steps out into the hall. There isn't anyone awaiting him with a butcher's knife (knives, he should hide his knives when he gets to the kitchen), so he considers that a good sign.

He keeps a hand wrapped around the hilt of his gun as he hobbles through the apartment, but he doesn't find any need to use it by the time he makes it to the open space the kitchen and living room are present in.

Loki is still on the couch.

And, if Phil remembers right, he hasn't even changed positions from last night.

The relief is nearly stifling.

Phil moves forward slowly, putting effort into keeping his weight balanced, but it's hard even with the fluffy-foam socks. He's not certain why he feels such a pressing need to be quiet, but it's there and his instincts have kept him alive this long.

He makes it to the living-room area, and slowly releases his death grip on his gun. Loki's eyes are still closed. From the pale lighting that the windows are offering, it's easier for Phil to see how awful the bruises from the mugging look.

The gang members didn't hold back, and, judging from the swelling forming in Loki's right hand, he didn't sit by idly to let them do it. He can't remember anyone looking bloody or bruised last night, but that might be because everything is mostly a haze through drugs and pain.

He's still not going to administer first-aid.

Not unless he  _ has  _ to.

The blood has dried in Loki's hair, and Phil imagines that it won't be pleasant to clean out later, but it's not his problem. Beyond check to see if Loki was awake, alive, and still here, did he have anything else he wanted to do when he came out here? He's...not sure. Without S.H.I.E.L.D. work, his days aren't exactly filled to the brim with activities he has to accomplish.

And—that gives him a vague formation of a plan. He  _ knows  _ that Fury said not to go back to base until his probation is completed, but he's pretty sure Fury never listed that he wasn't supposed to work. At least, not in those words. Honestly, until Loki wakes up, he has nothing else to do.

He can compile the list of HYDRA operatives and bases just as easily here as he can anywhere else. He just needs to log into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database and find them. He'll keep the window open and find the wanna-be-Tsar-bomb before Fury assigns someone else to the mission because Phil can't keep up with him.

He's not a liability.

Phil digs his laptop out from the dozens of pieces of paper a mess across the coffee table, but finding the charger is a little more difficult. This speaks more truth to how deeply he's been immersed in this than any medical report ever could—he's not one to let things compile into messes. After some effort, he finds the cord and moves towards the kitchen to set his laptop on the table.

From the angle of the furniture he's present at, he can still see Loki. If the Asgardian decides to rise from the dead from this point on, he'll be here to greet him. Which—that reminds him. Phil sets the laptop down, turns it on, and moves towards the kitchen to collect the knives. He has his doubts that Loki is incapable of creating weapons from anything—he's seen Thor do so before—but it will at least prevent an immediate source of destruction from being available.

He doesn't have any plans to let Loki near here, but he hides the knives as best he can anyway, and then moves back towards the table.

He presses his lips together and types into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database. The request for a password appears and Phil taps in the over complex one that he's been using for the last few months and waits. The screen declares that it's processing for over thirty seconds before announcing that the password is incorrect.

Phil's patience slips.

No.

Fury  _ wouldn't— _

He would.

Fury absolutely, one hundred percent would.

Phil slams the laptop lid shut and releases a loud groan of frustration, running a hand through his hair as he tilts forward to rest his head in his hands. Fury locked him out of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Phil  _ knows _ that it's basic protocol for benching, he's had to do it to plenty of agents himself. He just…

Thought that he'd be except from that.

But why would he be? He may keep Fury from going insane, but other than that his position in S.H.I.E.L.D. is nothing of great importance. This is getting ridiculous. He hasn't been  _ that _ bad. He's just been focused.

That's it.

Does Fury want him to only give a halfhearted attempt at getting everything done in the future? Would  _ that _ please him?

He's being stupid, but this stings in places he's not sure he can balm.

Phil gnaws on his gums and exhales sharply through his teeth. His shoulders are stinging again, but he doesn't have anything beyond Aloe Vera to rub against it. He's heard people put forth the idea that Aloe Vera is the cure for pretty much anything, but the idea of rubbing it across second degree burns unsettles him.

Why would Fury—!?

Stop.

Don't push this.

Fury is just following protocol.

Phil is not exempt from it.

But—he  _ does _ still have paper copies of everything he put together in the last seven weeks, which means that he's not...he's not  _ technically _ void of information unless an arson pops into the room and burns everything down to the ground. Which...it's…

He can't sit here and twiddle his thumbs. He  _ can't. _

Phil blows out sharply between his teeth and lifts his head. Paper. He can work with paper. This is fine. He'll get something done rather than just sit here and pretend that he's not in pain. Admittedly, if Loki wasn't here ( _ he's holding an Asgardian in his apartment) _ he would give up and go back to bed. Everything is fuzzing with discomfort and he wants to claw off the skin of his feet and upper back with vigor.

This is displeasurable.

Phil scoots the laptop away from the edge of the table and hobbles to his feet to go gather what he can find. Most of it is around this room, and gathering it into something actually useful takes more than two hours. He moves towards the map he has set up above the TV stand, one eye straying towards Loki as he pins up the possible locations for the HYDRA bases.

The post-it notes are a mess across the map and Phil spends some time trying to de-tangle them, lips thinned with frustration. His desire to collapse and get off his feet is rising with every passing minute, but he ignores it to the best of his ability. It's a little after noon when he finally manages to sit down and begin to sort through the papers.

As soon as he's sitting at the table, weight off his feet, he becomes acutely aware how much they  _ ache. _ His face twists with his discomfort and he lifts up one of his feet to rub at the injured area, flicking through the papers.

The HYDRA base he just dealt with a little past Pskov he marks off of the list of potential areas the weapon could be located. That means that he has a little over twenty-five left to determine, but that's just from the list that Fury gave him, HYDRA could have dozens of more bases elsewhere. And he didn't exactly make a subtle exit or entrance when he dealt with the Pskov one, so they probably buried the weapon.

Which is wonderful.

Now he has to dig through HYDRA  _ again _ to find possible locations.

This would be easier if he had more details on what he's supposed to be looking for  _ exactly _ , he knows that Fury mentioned it has the potential to outdo a Tsar bomb with ease, but that's all the info he got. How big it is, blue prints—any more detailed things like that he doesn't have, and he  _ needs _ them to get this done quickly.

Quickly. Ha. You know what else would be helpful with that? The S.H.I.E.L.D. database.

Shush.

Phil blows out a breath, shakes his pen to get the ink to move towards the bottom, and then begins to cross reference notes between the papers. He makes a point to look up towards Loki's position every few minutes, but he's been out here for over five hours and Loki hasn't moved.

Phil's had to check twice to make sure he's still breathing.

He almost dug through Loki's ratty hair to see if the head wound really is that bad, but getting close made his chest clench with irrational panic. All he could think of was the chilled expel of air against his neck as Loki shoved the edge of the spear through his chest. He left Loki where he was and contented himself with the fact that Loki was breathing, and that's what important.

Phil spends another hour working through the pages, but finds little success. It isn't impossible to make progress by hand, but it's slow and his mind is buzzing with pent up energy. If Loki wasn't here, and his feet such a mess, he would go running to clear his head so he could focus.

But that's not an option, and he's stuck at this table for the next nine days.

Or until Fury decides his grounding is over.

This is like being a child and having broken some rule his parents set up.

He's not certain what he was expecting to happen when Loki actually woke up. Maybe for the Asgardian to leap to his feet, break the handcuffs, yell about how Phil is a lesser being than him, blow up the block, and then leave to terrorize the rest of New York. If not that, then Loki to jump to his feet and murder him. Phil's thought of at least seven ways that it would be possible with the Asgardian's hands bound behind his back, and prepared for each of them, and an additional three where Loki breaks the cuff's chain.

But none of those scenarios come into play.

Phil's working on the papers and looks up only to realize that Loki has sat up and is leveling him with a narrowed stare between strands of dark hair. It's a great deal less anti-climatic than he was contemplating.

The pen in his hand stills.

His first instinct is to jolt and go for his gun, but he forces himself to steady. Loki hasn't made a move to attack him yet, and he  _ had _ the advantage with Phil's distraction. Phil doesn't need to use self defense until Loki tries to make a move at that, but it doesn't mean that he's going to suggest that they make friendship bracelets.

Steady.

Calm.

He needs to approach this like a sniping. One wrong move will make a mess of this entire thing, and the whole purpose of this is to learn information from Loki. Phil's read the reports of what Maria compiled into the S.H.I.E.L.D. database on Loki and knows that Norse Mythology famed his silvertongue. He needs to be aware of that.

He rises to his feet as best he can and is suddenly aware that he probably looks nothing close to professional. He isn't wearing his normal suit, instead dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt he's pretty sure someone gave him on Christmas last year as a joke. And, to top all of that de rigueur, he's wearing  _ fluffy socks. _

The one condolence for this is the fact that Loki isn't wearing anything fancy either. The large jacket seems to swallow his thin frame entirely.

It doesn't matter. Not much, but a suit feels like an armor that the this isn't.

Phil manages to keep himself from stumbling or hobbling as he moves closer to the megalomaniacal Asgardian, and he's rather proud of that. He comes to a halt on the other side of the coffee table and Loki's green eyes lift to him. His face is devoid of anything he can read, and it unsettles him greatly. Typically there's  _ some _ sign of emotion somewhere, but Loki has completely removed anything.

His expression, for lack of a better word, looks dead.

"Hi," Phil greets calmly, keeping his tone even and watches as Loki's gaze briefly travels the length of the room, and then comes back to him. "You got yourself into a sore spot last night. I helped." He notes. He's not attempting to be smug, but for some weird reason it feels like he is being.

Loki shoulders roll back a little, and Phil resists the urge to flick his hands towards the handcuffs. Loki doesn't have anything on his person that could be used to pick the locks, he checked, but Loki is a sorcerer, sedirmaster, whatever Thor was calling it— _ he does magic _ —and he needs to be careful of that.

Loki doesn't answer.

His gaze has shifted, but he hasn't made an attempt to speak.

This throws him a little. The Loki that  _ he _ knew for the brief stint he stayed at the Helicarrier would outlive anyone to get the last word in; wouldn't settle for one word when he could say ten. Phil didn't exactly  _ goad _ him into speaking or anything, but it's...unsettling that Loki's not bothering to try and talk back with him.

If it wasn't for the fact that Loki was speaking perfect English during the invasion, Phil would worry over a language barrier. That's clearly not what this is.

Alright.

He should re-evaluate this.

"Do you know who I am?" Phil questions, shifting his hands, but trying not to actively fidget. Loki's eyes settle on his face again, and his eyes narrow a fraction before there's a very small incline of his head. Phil nods, and tries not to be sick or actively show his discomfort with that. Phil  _ wasn't _ just a random S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that Loki needed to get out of the way, then. The Asgardian  _ knew of him. _

"Good," Phil says evenly, "then I think there's no need to bore each other by making acquaintances."

Still silence.

Is he using it as a defense tactic?

Phil's...that seems odd considering everything else that he's seen so far with the Asgardian. And, besides that, what does he have to be  _ defensive _ about? ( _ He woke up a prisoner, Coulson, he may be a psychopath, but he's not stupid _ ). Phil's lips thin a little, and he resists the urge to shift forward half a step.

Getting closer works in interrogations to offset the other person, but Phil would rather not see Loki any more agitated than he already is.

His green eyes are steady.

Phil refuses to break the contact first.

"Listen, I'll cut to the chase. It will be easier for both of us if you explain why you're here, on Earth, willingly." Phil promises, "I'll get it from you whether you want it or not, but it will be more pleasant for both of us if you don't fight me the whole way."

The Asgardian's bare feet shift a little, and Phil realizes how odd it is to see him without shoes on. Briefly, he contemplates ideas on where his boots ran off to, but realizes it's pointless and useless. Loki is being a brat, and asking about footwear isn't going to fix that.

Loki remains mute.

"Alright," Phil starts with a quiet breath, "Loki, I—"

A soft click sounds and Loki leaps to his feet, tearing across the apartment with speed that Phil wouldn't have thought him capable of. The handcuffs are thrown toward his face in the process of the outbreak, and Phil twists out of the way as Loki scrambles across the coffee table heading towards the front door. Phil dives after him, panic thrumming through his veins.

_ Crap, crap, crap— _

He will, without a shadow of a doubt, be fired if Loki leaves this building.

Phil manages to grab Loki's left forearm, and Loki jerks to a halt, stumbling over himself a little as a slight noise escapes his throat. He twists his wrist and brings his foot up to kick Phil in the stomach. He twists on his ankles and an expression of pain flicks across his face as his feet remind him that he is not healed yet.

Phil dives out of the way of the foot, and pulls Loki's hand behind his back, digging his gun out with his other hand and flicks the safety off, pressing it against the back of the Asgardian's skull. Loki's breaths are ragged, but he stills at the action.

"Stop," Phil commands, biting at the tip of his tongue to withhold a shout of agony. " _ Stop. _ Move again and I'll shoot you. No regrets on my part save the mess to clean it up."

Loki's hand wiggles in his grip.

Phil twists the arm further, bending Loki's wrist in a way he knows much be excruciating. A sharp breath escapes Loki, and he freezes a little further. Phil digs the gun into the back of Loki's skull. "I know that your people fame to be indestructible, but I don't think that either of us want to know how uncomfortable it is to have a bullet go through the brain."

Loki's struggles stop completely, and something in his stomach releases with relief and he heaves a quiet, wordless prayer of relief to anyone listening that he didn't have to fire. This wasn't supposed to happen. Loki was supposed to stay on the couch, docile, and Phil would dig out the information from him. That would be that.

What did Loki even pick the handcuffs with?

Why didn't he use magic?

. _..Did he? _

No. He would have  _ used it  _ to get away from Phil _ ,  _ wouldn't he have?  _ (He's touching Loki. He's touching his would-be-murderer and it makes him  _ sick.  _ He wants to vomit all over this ugly floor). _

Stop.

Focus.

This is more pressing.

Phil drags Loki towards their left and shoves him forward, back towards the couch. "Sit down," he commands and Loki stiffly takes the seat. Phil keeps the gun trained on him as he backs up and finds the handcuffs in the corner of the room. They're useless, clearly, but it feels him with some relief to know that they're  _ there. _

A few seconds of stalling before Loki can grab a knife and run him through again.

He returns to Loki's position, and adjusts his grip on his handgun a little. How many rounds does he have left? If Loki attempts to escape again, will there be enough to stop him? ( _ What would that amount be? Didn't Loki take bullets to the face when he attacked P.E.G.A.S.U.S?) _

Loki's rubbing at his wrist, but trying not to be obvious about it. Phil keeps the gun leveled towards his head, but Loki's expression has hardly shifted from the blank-dead-like state. Phil tries to reign in his patience and jerks his hand a little, "Give me your wrists, please."

Loki stares at him.

Phil pointedly shifts the gun.

Loki's hands, with a degree of attitude and clear disagreement on this, raise lifted together. It's a miracle that he's gotten Loki to do this in the first place, so he's not going to push for hands behind the back, even if that would be what he'd prefer. He snaps the locks into the place with one hand and sits on the coffee table across from him.

His feet are burning and he needs to lower the gun for the sake of his upper back.

Neither can be addressed.

Not now.

Not with Loki like  _ this. _

This would be so much easier if he had access to a sedative. ( _ What is he doing!? He should call S.H.I.E.L.D. and let them do this effectively. One man is not enough to stop _ him). "How did you get back here? Thor said you were imprisoned on Asgard." Phil avers in is best even tone, and though Loki twitches at the mention of his older brother, he doesn't answer.

His gaze flicks away from Phil, suddenly seeming  _ extremely  _ contemplative about Phil's decorating choices.

Not that there's much to see except the whole  _ wall _ detailed with his recent assignment. Phil refuses to let his gaze linger on the map, trying to give off the impression that it  _ isn't _ important, even if it is. Why won't Loki  _ say _ something? His silence is unsettling Phil more than he cares to admit.

Phil untangles his tongue from the roof of his mouth, "Are you going to talk to me?"

Loki stares at him, and his eyes briefly flick with something that looks like laughter.

_ Laughter? _

Phil flicks his gaze towards the ceiling for a second and resists the strong and  _ very _ tempting urge to just fire the bullet and be done with this entire mess. Does it really matter so much why Loki's here?  _ (Yes, because the treaty for Asgard's assistance should they call for it was conditional on Loki's return to Asgard _ ). He needs to drop this in the hands of his superiors and return to bed.

Maybe this is all an awful dream where he doesn't make such a crass decision and instead just goes to bed. Actually, a dream where he wakes up  _ before _ Pskcov would be better. Is he really trying to escape out of this by hoping that he was  _ dreaming _ ? This must be why Fury benched him. He  _ has _ been slacking.

_ (There. See. Fury did have a legitimate reason for benching you, idiot). _

Phil's teeth grit and he rises to his feet. Loki's eyes follow him, his head tilting up a little, but beyond that he seems perfectly relaxed. For some reason this makes his desire to yell rise abruptly. "Stay there, or I'll fire," Phil commands through his teeth and turns to move towards the kitchen, trying to  _ breathe. _

What was he thinking?

He can't do this.

He—

No.

Enough.

This is  _ how _ he'll redeem himself to Fury. He didn't need to be  _ benched _ . But he  _ has _ to establish some form of trust between the two of them, or he's not going to get anywhere. Water. He can get Loki water. He doesn't think he has any food that hasn't gone rotten (and offering moldy food is not a prime way to make friends), but water is safe and stable.

It's almost universal.

Phil keeps his ears keen for any movements that Loki makes as he fills up the glass and walks back towards the other room. Loki eyes the glass for a second longer than he has everything else, and Phil considers this an admission of his thirst. As much as he's going to get anyway.

He sits down on the coffee table again and lifts the glass out towards him.

Loki doesn't make a move for it. His gaze instead flicks towards Phil, wary.

"You saw me fill it," Phil says, "you know there's nothing in it. You can have it if you agree to answer  _ one _ question." He sloshes the water a little in front of him, and Loki's expression briefly flicks with something that appears to be anger, maybe frustration, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared.

The dark-haired Asgardian's eyes linger on the glass before his jaw tenses a little and he gives a single nod of his head.

Phil's eyes briefly close with relief, and he exhales sharply.  _ Thank you. _ He forces himself to settle, and rests his gun next to his leg. "Alright, good. What are you doing here—no, wait. Was your return to Earth part of your sentence?"

Loki's lips press together, and his gaze lingers on the glass again before he gives a slight dip of his head again.

_ Yes. _

Thank all that is good in this world.

He got  _ something. _

See!? He can  _ do  _ things, he pulled information from  _ Loki. _ ( _ Natasha got an admission of his next move in under three minutes. You've been working at this for seven.) _

Sentencing. So Loki's return here was part of his sentencing...but does that mean that he's  _ been _ here since the battle of New York? That was six months ago. He has a hard time thinking that Loki wouldn't have been noticed by anyone before him. Someone would have called him in. Probably. His face was made public, but he's not sure how many people would  _ know _ who he is.

Especially when he looks this sick.

Water. He told Loki he could have the water if he answered the question, and he did, and he can't hold it over Loki until he answers everything that he wants to know. It's incentive, but he can't use it forever.

He lifts the glass out towards Loki, and the Asgardian takes it carefully with his bony fingers.

Phil's first instinct is to grab it again when it tilts in Loki's awkward grip. He thins his lips and keeps his hands off of it as he mentally files away the information for the report he's going to write for Fury later.

Loki tilts the glass of water back towards his head and attempts to drink it. The water doesn't seem to do more than swish around his mouth before Loki's sputtering. A noise escapes him, a mix between pain and a gasp. He coughs sharply, and his cuffed hands come to tear his mouth open, the glass slipping from his grip. Phil catches it on instinct before it can shatter and Loki makes a strangled noise.

Confusion swirls through him.

What is going on?

Phil  _ knows  _ there was nothing in the water. It's  _ tap  _ water...he swears, if this is all some sort of act, he's—

Loki's heaves, and a mewl escapes him before he begins to cough, tilting forward and gasping. Phil notes, almost distantly, that the water-spit-whatever-it-is is bleached with red. Blood. Loki's not breathing.

Choking.

He's  _ choking. _

What the—? Phil shifts. Loki's death isn't something that he wants over his head—nor the  _ planet. _ They  _ need  _ the peace treaty with Asgard if they have any hope of maintaining a defense against whatever's out there. He's not going to be the person who breaks that. ( _ Why did he have to find Loki? Why couldn't it have— _ stop it. This solves nothing).

He doesn't quite touch the Asgardian, but he does lift his hands out towards him, "Breathe," he instructs, trying to maintain a small, tiny grasp of control. This all feels so pretend. He's grasping at the straws of something he has no power over.

"In for two, out for two, in—" Phil repeats the phrase and notes with near open disbelief that Loki  _ does  _ make an attempt to follow the breathing pattern. After nearly another minute has passed, Loki's cuffed hands lower from his throat and he inhales raggedly, coughing lightly again.

Phil's still holding the cup.

He sets it down beside the gun.

Loki's eyes pinch close for a brief moment, and he exhales shakily. Phil tries not to stare, but finds it hard. This entire thing is beyond bizarre. He wants to laugh with disbelief, but he should be used to this. He's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. That's how this works. But S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't prepare him for how to hold and house a super villain in his apartment.

_ What is he doing!? _

Phil eyes Loki carefully, and, in an effort to break the ice questions a little dryly: "Went down the wrong pipe?"

Loki blinks at him, confused.

Not an Asgardian saying, then. Phil waves a hand a little, "When you drink water, but it doesn't go down right and so you cough it up? We call that 'going down the wrong pipe' here. It's pretty common, actually, so I wouldn't degrade yourself for—" Phil stops abruptly, breath escaping him sharply.

The more he'd spoken, the further Loki's irritation had shown across his face before he'd tilted his head back and opened his mouth, revealing the source of this entire mess to him. He can't quite muster up anything to say, but a soft "oh" does slip from his lips without his consent.

Loki has no tongue.

The entire thing hasn't been removed. Not really. There's still a small portion towards the back of the throat that's worming around and that's strangely disturbing. Judging from how raw the remaining tongue looks, Phil's going to assume that this was recent. Within the last few months. And that...it...

What…?

What  _ caused  _ that?

It looks like someone just hacked it out with a knife, but that's...Loki was sent to Asgard to serve his sentence, not to get surgery. Phil would never approve this happening to anyone, it's...it's  _ barbaric. _ Isn't Asgard supposed to be more advanced than them? Why would they approve this? Phil thought that Loki's sentence served on Asgard would mean that he gets a few centuries of prison, maybe an execution. That's it. Not...not  _ this _ .

Thor said that Loki was sentenced to prison.

He never breathed a word that Phil heard of Loki's  _ tongue getting removed along the way. _

This is—this isn't  _ right _ . Loki tried to conquer their city and attempted his murder, but that doesn't warrant the removal of  _ speech _ . Permanently. (But the whole reason that Phil is benched now is because of Loki. Inadvertently, but because of him. Because of the stupid spear, and Loki went after  _ Clint _ with it.  _ Clint). _

Loki snaps his jaw shut, and the clicking of his teeth slamming together draws him back to the present. Loki's gaze flicks to the floor, and Phil releases a loud cuss.

Admittedly, maybe he should have been expecting something like this. Even with Asgard's famed status, they, from what Phil's picked up from Thor, can be quite primitive in some aspects.

But a  _ tongue? _

Why didn't Thor mention  _ anything?  _ (...He  _ knows,  _ right?)

Phil's not even sure how Thor telling them would have helped, honestly. S.H.I.E.L.D. probably wouldn't have taken him seriously, or only offered a sympathetic back pat. Phil himself wouldn't have, but the organization as a whole wouldn't have given it much thought. Empathy is something they lack sorely.

Loki's eyebrows lift a little at Phil's outburst, but he seems mostly unconcerned, eyes still on his feet.

Phil's lips thin hard enough to hurt, and he runs an agitated hand through his hair. This changes  _ everything.  _ His objectives, Loki's medical state, what he's going to tell Fury-- _ all of it.  _ He'd never expected  _ this.  _ How was he supposed to have!? Who removes a  _ tongue? _

Barbaric.

Phil clenches his fists tightly, trying to get himself to focus. This is a disaster. It has been since Pskov, and now--stop that. Whining gets no one anywhere. He exhales and lifts his gaze to Loki's gaunt face again. There is no outward proof that his tongue is missing, and for some bizarre reason this frustrates him. For something that  _ big,  _ he feels like it should show. At least he doesn't have to feign ignorance for not noticing it.

Phil wets his lips and tries to speak through his suddenly dry throat: "That must have hurt,"

Loki's gaze flicks up without humor, something that Phil can't quite place in his expression.

Phil holds the stare, "Was that part of your sentencing, too?"

He  _ hopes  _ not. Maybe it was some sort of sore mistake. Loki's face holds no answers, and the Asgardian doesn't bother to try and offer one. Great. They're back to this again. How does he get Loki to  _ talk?  _ Most of the interrogation techniques he knows have failed or Phil sees have little successes. WHat was Natasha doing that he  _ isn't? _

Granted, Loki's admittance was only a guess, but it was accurate.

So  _ what…? _

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Natasha let Loki think that the interrogation was in his control. Phil isn't going to pull answers unless he turns this into a quid pro quo. They both need to benefit.

Phil turns, looking for a few spare pieces of paper or a notepad--something of the like. He spots paper on the desk and rises to his feet, trying not to hobble as he retrieves the materials.

He returns to the coffee table and flicks the paper out to the dark-haired man, "Here," he says stiffly.

Loki doesn't take it, gaze settled behind Phil at something. Phil gathers himself, refusing to be unsettled. "I should hope I don't need to explain what paper is to yo," Phil says after a second, trying to garber the Asgardian's attention.

It works. Loki's eyes flash with brief irritation.

"You can't verbalize anything," Phil says, jerking up the three pieces of paper, "and this is second best. I'm sure you have questions, so I'll make you a deal--I'll answer yours if you answer mine. Does that sound acceptable?"

Loki's still for another second, searching his face maybe, before he reaches his cuffed hands and sharply pulls the paper and pen from Phil's fingers. Taking this as an admission of agreement, Phil gestures at the writing tools, "I already asked one, you can go,"

He's going to have to answer these carefully. If Loki starts pulling up things about S.H.I.E.L.D. he's going to have to drop this. He can't reveal secrets for the sake of learning a little bit of information. If the need arises, Phil can cut this all together and simply gain the information in a different way.

Loki's dead-like mask slips over his features before he looks down at the paper and begins to scribble something down. He's hunched over the paper almost possessively, and the observation makes Phil pause.

Does Loki honestly think that Phil is going to rip the paper away from him? He's not...that would be childish and Phil may be stupid and nasty sometimes, but he's not going to rip a mute's-- _ Loki is mute-- _ only means of communication away with a declaration of "just kidding!".

Loki twists the paper a hundred and eighty degrees, and pushes it towards Phil. It takes him a second to make out what Loki has written. He'd honestly expected Loki to have a loopy perfect cursive, but that is definitely not what this is. His letters are thin and tight, but lopsided to the left, giving the impression that they're going to tip over completely:

_ Are we still in New York? _

Phil looks up, seeing Loki waiting expectantly, "Yeah, Manhattan," He answers. He briefly debates with adding more, and then decides that letting Loki know his exact location may warrant more problems later on than not.

"Alright; How long have you been on Earth?" Phil questions.

Loki squints a little, and pulls the paper closer again, scribbling something before handing it over to him.

_ What month is it? _

Phil's brow furrows a little. How can Loki be unaware of that? If he's been here since his sentence, he would have grasped some context of Earth's time keeping. He looks up, "December." Technically the last day of November, but rounding is acceptable by this point.

Loki's face doesn't reveal if this is a surprise to him or not. HE writes out and additional answer, flipping the paper back.

_ Since May. _

So it  _ has  _ been since the invasion. Well, that's good to know that Asgard dumped him on Earth and no one even noticed for half a year. Phil only came across him by chance. S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to be moderating for threats like this, but as far as Phil is aware, no one knows about Loki. Is Thor aware that Loki's here? Why wouldn't he mention something?

Phil gnaws sharply on his inner lip, "What are your plans now?"

Loki's shoulders slump a little, but Phil barely processes that. His green eyes are sharp and settle on Phil's face as if challenging him to make a guess. Alright, fine, the most direct way to ask if Loki plans on killing anyone else it was not. He's trying to test this bridge gently instead of hopping on it with his full weight.

Evidently, it doesn't matter much.

Loki is an unknown variable.

Phil can make conjectures about his next move, but that's it.

Phil lets the question linger before explaining further on the thought: "Clearly you haven't been in jail since May, so what do you plan on doing here?"

Loki releases a breath, giving a little shake of his head before he writes out his answer. Then, he scratches it out beyond what Phil can make out upside down and writes another. He hands the paper back:  _ I am without "plans". If you're asking if I have another attempt to claim Midgard's throne in mind, the answer is no. _

And why is  _ that? _

_ Do you mean to kill me, Mr. Coulson? _

Phil hesitates on this question. Truthfully, he doesn't know. That all depends on what Loki decides. If he becomes a threat, Phil will be perfectly content to leave a bullet between his eyes, but otherwise...maybe the correct answer would be "yes, until further notice", but he doesn't want to  _ admit  _ that.

"No," Phil lies smoothly, "But that depends on you."

Loki smiles thinly. Carefully. Somehow, Phil gets the impression that his fibbing didn't go over his head like he was hoping.

Phil blows out a breath, trying to figure out what questions  _ need  _ to be addressed right now versus those that can wait. What Fury will want to know should be prioritized. That would be why Loki's here, how long he plans on staying, if he poses a threat, and what he's already done so far. That last one should probably be his next question. Loki's already been running around for six months, the damage he could do in that time isn't little.

Phil represses a sigh.

He really would like to go back to bed, but that is no longer an option.

"You've been here for half a year. What have you done in that time?" Phil questions evenly. "Any magical traps I need to disable?"

Loki's hands stiffen; and then slowly, heatedly, Loki raises his head to look up at him. His green eyes are narrowed and there's a second of stillness before Loki's hands swiftly tear the pieces of paper cleanly in half stopping midway to accommodate for the handcuffs before starting up again.

Phil's eyes widen.

What the--?

Loki crumples the two halves into a large mass of paper and throws it at Phil's face. Phil flinches as it smacks into him, and watches almost detachedly as it falls into his lap.

He breathes out slowly.

Alright.

"Do you have a reason for that?" Phil asks. Loki makes a face in answer and stiffly falls onto his side and then rolls over so his back is facing Phil. The conversation, according to him, is now over.

Phil isn't quite ready yet, but he is admittedly thrown by this. Loki has always presented himself with a collected aura; and rolling over so he can properly ignore Phil isn't something he'd thought Loki capable of. Maybe a pouting child.

What did he  _ say? _

Does Loki  _ actually _ have some sort of evil plot built up in the background and mentioning it is a sore spot for him?

Phil presses his lips together, and then parts them with some effort: "Sore spot?" He questions.

Loki doesn't answer.

"Where should I start looking?" Phil presses, "You have a bomb planted under the city? Planned on dropping a nuke on the White House? An elaborate magical--"

Loki hisses,  _ actually  _ hisses, and twists to look back at him with a scowl.

Unsettled, Phil snaps his jaw shut. Alright.  _ Parse this _ ; Loki didn't react until he mentioned magic, so, whatever it is that's making him...Phil doesn't want to say "violent" because "moody" is more fitting.

This has to do with magic.

Great.

"Not a bomb," Phil concludes, "good. Care to elaborate?"

Loki snears and rests his head back down. Phil bites at his lip to withhold himself from groaning or hitting something. This is fine. It’s all fine. 

Attempts at prodding him further get nowhere, so Phil eventually leaves Loki to himself to wallow in self pity, or whatever it is that Loki’s doing. He’s not exactly the best at guessing the actions, and he isn’t going to try and worm an answer out of him anymore.

He goes back to work, but keeps his gun next to his hand for the remainder of the day. There isn’t much of a need--Loki stays on the couch breathing in and out evenly without doing much else. At around seven, the pangs of hunger get to strong to ignore effectively, so Phil gets to his feet and forces himself to find his phone and order take-out.

He’d cook something, but a quick glance at the fridge reveals the state of that plan.

Everything is verily moldy, or absent, and Phil can’t exactly leave Loki on his own to run for groceries. Let alone the fact that he can barely move with his feet being...what they are. Did he change the bandages this morning?

He doesn’t think so.

  
 


	18. Withering Away -- Deleted Scenes/Alternate scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Someone remarked how they wanted to read Loki and Frigga's conversation in Withering Away and I was like, oh yeah, I did write that, but cut it out for the sake of length. This is my compilation of deleted/alternate scenes from Withering Away. Of which I regret to say I did not find the Loki and Frigga scene. I searched and searched, but I don't think I put it inside the "Junk" document and just deleted it. My apologies. I really did hope to find it. I can't even remember the details of it anymore...I'm kind of second guessing whether or not I just planned it, instead of writing. I don't know.
> 
> Anyway, good luck navigating this mess. I tried to put it in chronological order, but...
> 
> Also, yes, I am aware that words are not spelled right, the plot sucks, and grammar is a mess. This was in the junk document for a reason. This is 100% rough draft, and I'm more than humiliated by most of it. XD
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope.

* * *

[EVERYTHING IS POST CHAPTER 1]

[Post Chapter 1, this was the original chapter 2:]

Loki slips from his grip at the force of the pull immediately, but the Tesseract remains clutched tightly in his right hand. His grip tight enough he's mildly afraid, somewhere in the calmer regions of his mind, that, should he press any harder, he'll shatter glass.

He's not stupid enough to test fate again.

Thor squeezes it harder.

He's learned his lesson with being lax. (He  _hopes_ he's learned his lesson). He won't lose the Stone. Not when they're so close to accomplishing their goal. Not when he can prove that he's not such a failure and  _fix_ the whole mess he started.

Loki doesn't find nearly the success with landing on his feet as Thor does. His younger brother immediately topples to his knees, heaving, dark hair a mess around his face as he tries-considerably-not to throw up. Thor doesn't drop the Tesseract, but he does squat next to the younger after a moment.

He hesitantly reaches a hand out to rest on Loki's shoulder for assurance. ( _Is this real? Is he dreaming? Loki has been dead for so long now, and this can't be real)._ Loki hardly seems to acknowledge his presence, a hand coming up to claw at his chest as he gasps.

Sympathy swirls through him.

"Thor…" Loki's voice is thin when he's finally managed to gain his breath back, "what on  _Helheim-?"_

Thor's gaze flicks up, Loki stopping mid-question at the sound and sight of the other Avengers falling into view beside them. Most with varying degrees of balance, but none outright topple like Loki did, however it's fairly obvious that the speed they return from is dizzying.

Thor has little desire to repeat this again.

But he has to. He's the only one who can get the Aether.

The energy surges of the Infinity Stones roll towards him with gentle prods, and the sensation of their power makes him want to physically draw back. He thinks that the human's process it as a numbness in their senses-almost like a drug-but he, and anyone else who has a sensitivity to sedir, feels surges of their strength. It makes something within him hum with contentment and a desire for  _more._ It terrifies him.

He isn't the Titan.

He doesn't lust after this.

No. Just- _No._

Thor keeps a hand rooted on Loki's shoulder and does a quick, desperate headcount. Tony, Steve, and Bruce (who never left) are all here. Scott, Rhodes, the Rabbit, Clint, Nebula, and-Thor scans the group again, trying to find Natasha. His stomach does something funny, a mixture between a scream and a horrified drop as he doesn't spot the master assassin among the group.

She's not here.

_She's not here._

_No. Thor can't-not her._ Please. Please. Please.

Thor sees Steve's gaze follow the same headcount, and his eyes widen a little. He visibly fidgets, turning to the archer. "Clint. Where's Nat?"

Clint's expression says everything. It's opened, gutted raw with agony, and it makes Thor's chest heave with the desire to scream. No. After  _all_ their  _other_ losses, why can't fate be merciful to them,  _once,_ and allow them this? Allow the Avengers to stay together? Natasha is the only thing that's kept everyone from falling apart these last five years. He knows from the brief, rare phone calls they shared.

She was the only one, save the random text from Steve, that kept in contact with him after he didn't go for the head. After everything and now she's- _no._ She can't- _not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Please, he can't-_

A cold hand squeezes his, and Thor's gaze flicks down as he tries not to jump. Loki. Loki is  _here_ and he's still  _alive._ His head as tilted up a little, and though his green eyes are rapidly searching over everything and trying to parse it, it calms him to know that his younger brother is still aware of him.

(It also makes him sick. How could he be so ignorant of his brother for so long? How could he have wasted so much time on Asgard treating him lesser and not  _caring_ that Loki was his shadow? Why has Loki always been the better brother between them?  _Fail-_ ).

"Clint," Tony's voice sounds both exhausted and barely a contained shout.

"She's not coming back." Clint manages to grit between his teeth. "He took her. He took her and she's not-" his voice cracks. He turns his head away, refusing to meet their eyes, "she jumped so I wouldn't have to."

What?

What  _jumping?_

Who would- _Oh._ The Soul Stone. Natasha and Clint were sent to gather the Soul Stone, and it demands a price for it's deeds. Thor didn't care much to learn deeply of it when he went on his two year stint to try and find them, more concerned on the ones he could locate easily, but he knows that there was a price. Natasha's  _life_  was that price.

Thor  _hates_ these Stones.

"Alright," Steve's voice is deceptively level as his gaze travels across them again, "we're just going to have to mana- _what the-!_?" Steve doesn't quite rear back-but it's close-as his gaze lingers on Thor again, and, ergo, his sibling. Steve's shield lifts in defense, his entire posture seizing as the rest of the Avengers and Guardians do the same. Loki's eyes briefly close with something that looks like exhaustion, and Thor can't blame him. Not really. Loki  _just_ came from the long brutal battle for their people, Thor walked away from it five  _years_ ago. There's little he can do to help his sibling get the rest he needs.

Thor's fingers strain for Stormbreaker should the need arise ( _he's not watching Loki die-or be injured for that matter-again!)_ , but he doesn't feel the familiar lull of the weapon awaiting his call. There's simply a void, and the cut is almost as serving as Mjolnir's destruction was. His face drains of color.  _No. No, no-Forbannelser._

Thor left Stormbreaker on the  _Statesmen._ He doesn't have a weapon.

"You actually did it," Tony's voice is blank, and Thor  _hates_ it. He hates it when Tony collapses like this, because that means that he's furious, but trying not to show it openingly. "I didn't think you were serious."

He would never say something like  _that_ for humor! ( _He doesn't really_ say  _much anymore, anyway)._ He wisely keeps this thought private.

Loki rises to his feet, somehow managing to outwardly gather himself together in the fluid movement. Thor can't. Not that simply. He's still a jumbled mess and he's not even sure where to  _begin_ to garner the pieces together. Thor lifts himself up as well, keeping the death grip on the Tesseract prominent. There's no need to, not now, but if he lets it go, he fears he'll fall apart.

Bruce has moved away from the controls, his stance wary.

Every eye is lingering on them, and Thor shrinks beneath the attention.

Loki smooths a messy piece of dark hair away from his face, and doesn't quite smile, "You're all looking well. Some new Midgardian health secret I should be aware of?"

Thor sees Nebula's hand go to her sword, and Scott visibly flinches. Tony takes a step forward, his hand shaking with anger. "No.  _No._ Don't you start, Psychopath-" Thor makes a noise in the back of his throat, "-don't you  _dare_ make this about you. We just lost a sister, and if you  _think_ that this is somehow about you,  _stick it."_

Loki draws back a little. "It wasn't my intention to stall you from your grief."

Tony smiles bitterly, "Right. You're empathetic like that."

His younger brother's head tilts a little, as if debating, "I would say it safe to assume, Stark, that  _you don't know me._ "

Tony snorts, "Because there's  _that_ much complexity." Loki smiles a little, and Thor nearly winces. What was he thinking? He could arrive back with Loki on  _Midgard_ and somehow it would solve everything? That the Avengers would be perfectly alright with it? It stings a little to realize that the only reason they agreed in the first place was because they thought that he was going to fail.

He bites back a groan. Norns know how  _this was a terrible idea._ The Avengers are going to kill Loki or Loki  _them_ before they can reverse the snap.

"Tony," Steve rests a hand on his teammate's shoulder, and the multi-billionaire deflates visibly, but he's blinking rapidly. His eyes are wet. The anger is still there, but Thor can see the grief more prominent. Shouldn't he feel something like that? The desire to cry with Natasha's death? He doesn't feel much of anything.

Steve turns to him, and Thor finally notices the briefcase in one hand and can pick out the distinct energy signature of the Mind Stone within it. Rocket is gripping the Time Stone in one paw, but his gaze keeps flicking between Thor and Loki, his other paw on his weapon. Actually, now that Thor's looking for it,  _everyone_ has a hand on their weapon except for him and his brother.

This was a mistake.

Did Thor bring his brother here only for him to be murdered in cold blood again?

Steve breaks the distance between them and lifts out a hand. He looks like he's trying really hard not to look towards on left where Loki is. "Thor, give me the Tesseract. You and Rocket need to get the Aether before we can get anywhere."

Oh. Yes. That. Right. It...right. Thor is not prepared to go back to Asgard. He's not...he's not sure if he  _can._ He's the reason that it burned to the ground, he caused Ragnarok and got his people stranded as refugees for the rest of their lives. Midgard will only tolerate them for so long before they kick them off to fend for themselves. It's in men's nature. Thor has seen it happen again and again throughout their history.

How can he go back to Asgard, and not  _stay_ there?

"I don't mean to interject," Loki's voice is smooth, but it breaks Thor from his revere all the same. Loki's gaze is mostly focused on him, but it is flitting in the direction of the multiple Infinity Stones in the room. Thor knows that he can sense their power as well, probably more distinctly than Thor can with his official sedir training. Even at his lower sensitivity, it's distracting. "But what on the Norn's name is going on?"

The Rabbit's ears perk a little and his hand lifts from his weapon, "Oh. So you didn't tell him?"

Thor latches onto his tongue with his teeth and his face heats a little. No. He didn't. There wasn't enough time to explain, and he was more focused on Loki's fate as an individual, not what happened to everyone else. At that time, beyond the Tesseract, it wasn't important.

Thor chances a glance towards his sibling's face, and opens his mouth to explain, but words have escaped him. No. Not now! He needs to explain this, but he can't get anything to come out beside a huff of air. Loki's eyes are studying him, and Thor sees a brief flicker of confusion flicker across his expression.

_Out. Come out. Words. Why can't he speak?_

Steve apparently catches onto his sudden mute spell, and tilts his head towards Loki, "Do you know of Thanos?"

Loki's face is impassive; he picks at his palm a little, "He just slaughtered half my people, Captain."

Steve nods, "Alright. He wiped out half the universe with the Infinity Stones. We're trying to reverse that by collecting the Stones again."

Loki's mouth parts a little and he inhales sharply, eyes rapidly moving across the room again. Thor is almost expecting an excessively long exclamation, but all Loki does is make a soundless "oh".

The Tesseract. Steve wanted the Tesseract. Thor slowly lifts up his hand and Steve raises his to take the cube from him. The tingling in his hands immediately seize, and Thor is relieved. That energy source is a murdererer, and it has no idea the amount of innocents it's slaughtered. It gambles for life like a toy, and Thor  _hates_ it. It took Loki. Twice. And it took Asgard.

Steve's expression tightens a little as he manhandles it, but he gives a brief nod of thanks and moves away, setting the briefcase and the Tesseract on the small table that Clint put the Soul Stone down on sometime in the last few minutes. "Bruce, can you set the time...vortex back to the date that Thor gave you earlier?" Steve questions.

Bruce nods, already moving towards the machine. Thor resists the urge to insist that he's not ready.

"Guys, it's a time machine. Just call it a time machine." Scott folds his arms across his chest with irritation. His expression is tired. They all look tired. He can sense the same exhaustion on his face.

"He's got a point," Rhodes notes.

"I'll get to it," Bruce assures, ignoring the two. "It should be ready to go in about two minutes." Bruce hesitates before moving forward any further, "Steve, what...what are we going to do about Nat?"

The rest of the Avengers visibly tighten at the reminder and Thor's mind cries out with loss again. He doesn't want to think on this. No one was supposed to die on the retrieval, no one was supposed to die  _period._ Natasha insisted that they'd see each other in a minute.

Thor doesn't even know where her body is.

"I…" Steve looks at a loss.

"We'll bring her back," Tony presses, "when we snap. We'll bring her back, then."

Clint's head lowers. Loki huffs loudly and all heads turn towards him for an explanation. Loki's still picking at his palm, and Thor resists the urge to whack his hands apart. He knows from past experience that it will only make his brother irritable.

Loki doesn't say a thing in answer to the silent question, but it seems to be enough to snap the tension in the room so sharply Thor wouldn't have been surprised if it cracked. Clint swears and crosses the distance between them, "Do you think this is funny?"

Loki's mouth parts, but Clint forcefully shoves him back. Loki staggers a little, and Thor reaches out a hand to steady him, sending Clint a warning look. " _Shut. Up!"_ Clint demands, "I hate you. Oh, I could run you through and not feel a thing. I'd  _enjoy_ it. You'd deserve it. I heard what Thanos did to you the first time, and I'm sorry that Thor pulled you out."

Something near physical hits his stomach.

"Fantasizing about murder, my hawk?" Loki's voice is soft, "I think we best leave the homicidal scheming to me."

Clint's expression tightens, and Thor shifts a shade closer to his sibling. Not with the intent of protection, but to  _protect._ "Scheming? You don't  _do_ scheming! Your invasion plan was squat. We could have stopped it in our sleep, and you claim to be some sort of genius? No. Your pathetic, and you  _know_ it."

_Stop it!_

"Clint-" Bruce's voice is hard.

"Shut it! It's Loki's fault that she's dead. We wouldn't have had to deal with this whole, stupid mess if  _HE_ hadn't publically, and loudly came down to Earth to announce his presence  _with a stupid Infinity Stone_ in his hand." He turns back to Loki, "Natasha is  _dead_ and it's  _your fault, psychopath!"_

Clint's hand makes a move to slam against Loki's face, but Thor catches it before it make contact. Loki staggers back a step despite this, but Thor's hardly paying attention anymore. He twists Clint's arm, halting the force and the possibility of Clint trying again. Rage is burning through his blood and clouding his vision.

How  _dare_ he?

_None_ of this is Loki's fault! How  _dare_ Clint pin the blame on him?

" _Shut it."_ It's the first words that Thor's spoken to him properly in months, but the archer doesn't seem to really care. He twists out of Thor's grip.

"No- _you_ stop this! If you had just  _gone for the head,_ then none of this would have happened, and my partner would still be alive and we-"

Thor flinches, air escaping him in a tight heave.

The head.

He should have gone for the head, and he didn't, and he made this whole mess and the Tesseract was supposed to fix it, but now it's made it bad again, and all of this is bad, and there was...and Thor is still  _so alone_ and he can't do this by himself anymore. He's to tired. He's had enough. Everyone hates him because-

The head.

_Why didn't he-!?_

Clint shoves him, and then grips his shoulders, rattling him back and forth. It makes something in his stomach clench with extreme discomfort, but he holds steady as best he can. He can't bring himself pull away. "I hate both of you! I hate  _Asgard_ -it ruined  _everything._ If you had never stepped foot here and stopped treating Midgard like your rubbish bin, then Nat would still be alive, and Laura and my kids and-and-and you killed  _everyone_ and you're not even  _sorry_ -"

"Clint, please," Thor's voice is small.

He's going to throw up.

His breath is coming out thinned. His hands are shaking.

He can't breathe.

_The head. Why didn't he go for the-!?_

Clint's still babbling out words of panic, and Thor knows that he's not supposed to take them seriously, because when Clint slips into anxiety attacks his mouth opens and everything he says can be discounted as a chaotic mess. They're not supposed to take his speech as truth, but it still  _hurts._

Clint shoves him again, but rather than nearly topple over, a hand presses against his back and keeps him steady. Loki's hands grab at Clint's forearms, forcefully tearing them away. " _Get_ your hands  _off of my brother."_ Loki's voice is flat, but Thor can hear the undertone of fury.

Clint's entire posture has seized, and his face has gone white. The open panic has turned to horror. "Let me go," his voice is barely above a whisper.

Loki doesn't, and Clint squirms in the grip.

"Reindeer Games, release the man, or we'll shoot you full of holes." Tony's voice is behind his suit, and Thor looks up to see weapons drawn towards them. He's made a bigger mess of a colossal mess for being  _selfish_ and not letting Loki rest in peace, and now he's going to get him killed  _again,_ but this time it will be by those who are supposed to be his...not friends or teammates (he's failed them to much for it), but acquaintances.

Loki drops Clint's forearms like they've burned him, but he doesn't shift from the defensive position he's taken up in front of Thor. Thor's not even sure if his younger brother is aware he's doing it, but shame ripples through him all the same.

_He's_ the older sibling, it's his job to look after  _Loki._

It's not supposed to be the other way around. (But how often it is and has been).

Clint scrambles back, and Steve takes a position in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he sees Loki's gaze flit towards the briefcase on the table beside the other Infinity Stones. Thor's breath catches in his throat. The scepter. The scepter is  _there_ and Loki  _knows_ it's there. If he takes it, he can have everyone subdued as puppets in under a minute.

They may have their weapons, but Loki has his  _sedir._ Against it, they're nothing. (And Thor doesn't know if he'd be able to get Loki to stop, or become a part of the collateral damage as his brother escapes).

The silence is thick before Loki laughs a little, causing Thor to flinch. The sound is bitter and dry.

Steve's gaze flicks towards Tony, uncertain.

"If we're done sizing each other up, my brother and I, I think, need to have a chat," Loki's hand wraps around his wrist, but two of his fingers are digging uncomfortably into his skin. Loki's palm is cold, and Thor resists the urge to twitch as it maintains contact.

Loki pulls him forward, towards the edge of the platform.

"Wait, no, stop-" Steve commands, and rushes towards them. Loki draws away sharply. "You can't leave right now. Thor still has to get the Aether."

Loki chortles, "If Thanos had the Infinity Stones, then the Reality Stone is destroyed, Captain."

_How does he know that?_ None of them suspected that Thanos would destroy the gauntlet after he balanced the universe. Thor knows that Loki  _knew_ Thanos to an extent, but whether it was a fleeting passing, or something else, Thor isn't certain. Beyond his few spat words in Thor's direction in 2012, Thor hasn't heard a word of anything else that happened when he fell into the Void.

He can't even remember Loki's exact  _words_ anymore. It wasn't important at the time, and Thor hasn't thought about it in years. Why should he have? Loki offered no clues that they were significant; he mouthed off to everyone else during that time with far more chatter than Thor had been accustomed to then. Loki had always been on the quieter side until he came back from the Void.

"Not how we're looking," Steve promises, snapping Thor back into attention, "can it wait a minute? And I  _really_ mean a minute because Tony figured out a way to get this to work that fast and-"

"No." Loki assures flatly.

"Loki," Thor whispers softly, he's supposed to fix this. He can't shirk  _now._ He'll make up for his mistake, for his  _failure_ and then he and Loki can recompense. Talk, whatever, because they'll have  _time._ Thor will have expiated himself.

"No," Loki repeats, dragging Thor forward another step. "Let's quid pro quo-If you can spare us five minutes, I'll tell you how you can get your precious Widow back."

The room silences, and Thor feels his jaw slide open a little. It...she...how... _what?_ Before anyone can come up with anything coherent, Loki has dragged him off of the platform properly, opposite the side of Bruce, and is pulling him away from the large garage-converted-time-machine-area.

They exit the room without anyone trying to stop them, and Loki's posture slumps a little, his freehand coming up to press against his chest. The ribs. Loki's ribs are broken and-Thor forgot in between everything else. What if space-time-whatever-they're-calling-it did something worse to the damage? Thor didn't even think of how it would effect injury.

Loki stares at the long hallway and blows out a slight breath. "I have no idea where we are." Loki admits, his voice a little quiet.

Thor's gaze flickers towards him with confusion. But-no, he wouldn't, would he? Loki didn't visit Midgard between his attack (that Thor knows of) and Ragnarok. He doesn't know about the Avengers Compound-well, he  _might_ , but he hasn't stepped foot in it before.

Thor opens his mouth to answer, but nothing but a little noise in the back of his throat comes out. He snaps his jaw shut and turn his head away from Loki sharply, humiliated. Curse his inane  _voice!_

Loki doesn't push and they take a few more steps forward before Loki grabs at the nearest door and shoves it open. He shoves Thor inside and pulls it closed behind them, managing to find the lightswitch with minimal difficulty. The light immediately turns on and Thor's eyes scan over the familiar area, biting sharply at inner gums. This is Wanda's room. She preferred being closer to the exits, though Thor never knew her well enough to determine why. He's odd on and off visits between Ultron and Ragnarok didn't offer a great deal of time for anything but a basic aquantenince to perform between them.

Still, though, it feels strangely disrespectful to be in here.

Most of the items have been boxed and shoved into one corner and the furniture has blankets thrown over it. Thor can place this as the Witch's from the origami lamps and figures hanging from the ceiling. She was obsessed with it. She taught Thor how to make a swan, but the details have been lost to him.

Loki's gaze sweeps across the room before he grabs the chair in front of the desk and drags it out, shoving Thor towards it. Loki takes a seat on top of the desk as his face flinches with discomfort, a hand coming to press against his ribs again.

"Brother," Loki starts with some trepidation, "I don't...what  _happened?"_ To much to explain in a five minute period, yet so little that he could. Thor clears his throat, trying to get his tongue to work properly, but it, per usual now, remains tangled. Loki waits patiently for nearly twenty seconds before he shakes his head a little. "What happened to your voice? Did someone-You're barely said a word since we got back here."

Thor shrugs helplessly.

If he knew, he'd have fixed it by now.

Loki's eyes briefly close and he appears to gather himself, "Alright. I assure you that we'll fix this later, but we don't have the time right now. I doubt that your Avengers will be terribly lenient on the time frame." Half the universe's fate hangs in the balance. Thor would say they have reason to be. "Nonetheless," Loki shifts a little, pushing down heavily on one of his fingers and his hand flexes with discomfort. He's setting the bones and trying to not be obvious about it. Thor decides not to point this out.

"Just nod or shake your head," Loki instructs, and Thor feels relief cascade through him. Very few people have tried to be sympathetic this...this  _weakness,_ and most simply say they'll try later, or ignore him. Brunnhilde is really the only one who actively get frustrated or angry with him about it. Loki's gaze flicks towards the door for a moment, and then turns back to him. "Thanos...the Titan, did he... _take_ your ability to articulate?"

Thor shakes his head no.

Loki's stance slumps a little, "Good. Are Asgard's survivors well?"

Thor nods.

"Am I dead in this timeline?"

Thor hesitates, before slowly giving an affirmative nod. Loki releases a soft breath, setting another bone in his hand and Thor tries not to wince. "You're gathering the Infinity Stones...and Thanos already snapped, which means he's already destroyed them, so how-no wait," Loki pauses, worrying his lip with his teeth as he attempts to figure out how to ask his question in a way that can be answered in yes or no. "The Captain had the scepter," Loki notes out loud and Thor tries not to uncomfortable that Loki knows that, but he can't help the slight worry that buzzes in the back of his mind anyway.

Taking Loki into a room with five of the six Infinity Stones was probably not the best idea, honestly. Any time that Loki has been near one has resulted in-no, he's not going to finish that thought. He's  _not_ pinning blame on Loki for the deaths. He's  _not._

"But the scepter was destroyed with the creation of Stark's...thing," Loki waves his hands, "the homicidal machine, and the one that pretended itself a man." Loki must have noticed his startled look and shakes his head sighing, "Thor, Asgard left  _two_ Infinity Stones on Midgard when you took the Tesseract and me back to Asgard. I was king for four years, I kept an eye on them in a effort to plan a way to remove them discreetly. Thanos would have slaughtered them in droves if he arrived to take either."

Oh.

Thor had...he knows that Asgard was perfectly aware that Loki was their king for at least a year before he arrived (he's heard from multiple Aesir of such, and he knows that Loki did so intentionally), but he didn't really think much else of what Loki  _did_ when he ruled. It...hadn't occurred to him to wonder.

Loki waves a hand, pulling him back to the present, " _You_ collected me from the  _Statesmen,_ and if I'm dead here and the Good Captain has the scepter, then that means that he got it  _before_ the kill machine...but that would  _also_ indicate...that…" Loki stares at him looking utterly flabbergasted as something occurs to him, and then drops his head into one of his hands, "Oh, you  _morans._ You broke the laws of time to collect the Stones, didn't you?"

What else were they supposed to do!? Let  _trillions_ lay in an unjust resting place? Thor doesn't even know if any were granted passage into Valhalla or not. Thor's tongue untangles suddenly, "It was the only thing that would  _work."_

Loki startles at his voice, and looks up at him. "Brother, I-" he stops, and releases a harsh breath, "fine.  _Fine._ Let me make sure I understand: Your plan is collect the Stones, use them to bring the dead back, and then...what?  _Return_ them to the time you stole them and hope that no one noticed they went missing?"

Thor makes a face. It sounds a lot stupider out loud, but it might just be Loki's skeptical tone. "Yes, that was pretty much it." Thor admits.

Loki's eyes flick towards the ceiling in irritation, muttering a choice word under his breath, "Well...I-Thor," Loki's eyebrows furrow suddenly, and he flicks his gaze towards him, "I know of at least  _seven_ separate times that the Tesseract is easier accessible than the  _Statesmen._ Why would you choose  _then_ of all times?"

"I could save you on the  _Statesmen_ ," Thor says simply. Loki's eyes widen and the rapid flexing of his broken-healed? Thor's not sure-hand stops. The shock stings a little. Does Loki really think that Thor  _wouldn't_ take the opportunity to save him if he could?

Loki's lips part to say something, but the door opens and Bruce pokes his head in, "Hi, sorry, Thor," he addresses, and Thor resists the urge to scowl. "The machine is ready, you need to go. The sooner we can get this over with, the better. All we need is the Aether and we're done. You'll be back in less than a minute."

A minute of  _this_ time, he could be on Asgard for hours.

Thor rises to his feet, and Loki slides off the desk, "I'm coming," he reassures. Bruce nods, and chances a hesitant glance towards Loki, who says nothing. The scientist pulls out of the room, but leaves the door open and walks down the hall.

Thor moves forward, but Loki's hand grabs his shoulder. He pauses, and looks back, "You're going back to the time of the convergence? With Miss Foster?" His voice is tight.

Jane.  _Jane._ He-doesn't want to think about her. The wound has lessened with time, but it's still sharp. She was taken in the snap, so he never got the opportunity to apologize for the mess he made of their relationship.

Thor nods, and then realizes what Loki is  _actually_ asking. He lifts a hand to grip Loki's fingers, "Brother, I can't take Mother with me."

"Why not? You took me." Loki challenges, his tone desperate, "She dies that day, slaughtered like a pig for a banquet. We can-"

"" _We"?"_ Thor interrupts, "There isn't a "we" in this. You're not going with me."

Loki draws back a little, stance heated, "I'm not asking for  _permission._  You pulled me back into this, and I'm not going to idly fret with my hair as you run through time and hope you don't make a mess of things. I can-"

" _No."_ Thor argues.

"Thor-"

"No, as you're  _King,_ I command you to stand down. You have at least five broken ribs, a few fingers, and likely other injuries you're hiding. You were just in a war, I'm not going to let you run around on Asgard with that!"

"How to you expect to subdue Miss Foster without me?" Loki demands sharply, " _Woo_ her with your good looks and charm hoping that she doesn't notice when you pull an  _Infinity Stone_ from her blood?" Loki snorts a little, "Good luck with that."

Thor's fists clench, "What would you have us do, then?"

"I have sedir, Brother," Loki reminds, "I can put her in a sleeping trance  _and_ hide you from the guards. Malekith will be starting his attack then, and you'll never get out through the chaos."

"We don't have to," Thor argues, lifting up his hand to wave the time-watch in Loki's face, "This will pull us out at any time."

Loki smacks his hand down, "Enough. I'm coming. Accept that."

"No." Thor argues. Loki's hands raise with some irritation.

"For the love of-I'm not going to run off. I'm not daft, I understand the pressing need of this."

"It has nothing to do with that!" Thor hisses heatedly, he knows that his voice is raising, but he can't quite quell it.

"Then  _what-!?"_

Thor grabs Loki's upper arms tightly, "I can't protect you!" He bites at the tip of his tongue, and pleads with his voice's captor to wait a moment longer as he feels his throat closing. "You have been dead for  _five years,_ Loki. I thought-" he squeezes his eyes shut, "that I'd never see you again, and now you're  _here_ and  _alive._ I know that you don't  _need_ the protection, but please grant me the peace of knowing that you're safe as I finish this."

Loki is quiet.

Thor sighs, before admitting lowly with reluctance: "I need to atone for what I did. I'm the reason that Thanos succeeded in the first place. I didn't...I didn't go for the head. I'm sorry, Loki, but please just wait here until I return."

Loki sighs with defeat, "Fine."

Thor squeezes Loki's shoulders with relief, resisting the absurd urge to draw him into a hug. "Thank you, Brother."

Loki wiggles from his grip, "You best be on with it before your Avengers drag you," he warns, and Thor's lips press together at the reminder. Yes. That. Will Loki be okay here while Thor is gone? It's less than a minute in this time, but still.

Loki can take care of himself. Thor is merely fretting. Stupidly fretting.

The two of them exit Wanda's room at last, and walk down the hall side by side in silence. Thor can't think of anything to say, and Loki doesn't look like he wants to speak. Thor presses his lips together tightly and tries to remind himself that it's just a minute, and he can deal with this when he gets back. His voice has been stolen, again, though, and Thor doesn't know if he can get it to relent this time.

But Loki did bring up a point. How are they supposed to  _silently_ take the Aether from Jane if she's awake? Malekith managed, but he was using sedir, not some extraction device that Rocket says has a twelve percent chance of actually working. Tony couldn't come up with anything better, and their combined efforts didn't help much.

This is a mess.

If he'd just-

No. He doesn't have time for that right now.

Thor sighs under his breath and steps into the garage. The other Avengers are still waiting, though Thor realizes that Nebula and Rhodes are missing. Rocket shoulders a large gun over his shoulder, "You ready Sparkly-Butt?"

Thor nods, the absence of Stormbreaker once again evident. He can't believe he left it on the  _Statesmen._ He and Loki fought, and then Thor never picked it up again.  _Stupid._

Rocket hums, and his gaze lingers on Loki for a moment before he gives a jerky wave, "Well. Okay. See you, Thor's brother. Avengers."

Thor and Rocket slip up the steps to stand on the platform, but he pauses as he sees Tony slip in front of Loki. "You had your five minutes. Quid pro quo, remember? We did something for you; how do we get Nat back?"

Thor shares a quick glance with Rocket to confirm that the Guardian can wait just a moment. If Loki knows  _any way_ to reverse what the Soul Stone did, Thor will gladly take it. He doesn't care the cost.

Loki shifts his weight from his right side and folds his arms across his chest. "What I know of the Soul Stone is admittedly limited. Asgard has-had it's resources, but most of what I learned of it came from a place I don't feel inclined to share. A soul for a soul is what I've heard, but what I  _know_ is that Agent Romanov gave her soul for the Stone. But this isn't the first time the trade has been done, Stark."

And that-

The Soul Stone has been traded for before...but if that  _is_ the case, then the Stone has to go back to whatever hole it crawled out of to  _make_  the trade again, otherwise it  _should_ have been running around the universe like the other five. Natasha and Gamora's lives were given for the Stone, but they couldn't have done that unless the Stone was returned.

"What are you saying?" Clint's voice is barely above a breath.

Loki's gaze flicks to the archer for a moment before returning to Tony, "I'm saying that you have to bargain for her soul again. She was traded for the Stone, you have to trade the Stone for her."

Clint presses the back of his hand against his mouth. Thor's breath catches in his chest. They can still save Natasha. They can still bring her back. She's not dead. Not  _really. They can still fix this._

"What do we have to do?" Steve questions.

Loki shakes his head and shrugs a little, "I'm uncertain. I've never traded for it before, and the only person I suspect has is on Alfheim. Rotting, I should add, he's been dead for over two centuries." Loki rubs at his forehead as if trying to keep back a headache, "Thirst for knowledge satisfied? You've made a mess of time and broken the laws of Yggdrasil, but who am I to judge?"

Steve's stance shifts a little, "Do you know anything else about the Stone?"

"No," Loki promises, "but even if I did, why would I tell you?"

"Okay, girls calm down," Scott prompts, "we need to get the Aether and chatting is kind of delaying that. Thor, Rocket, you should leave."

Thor shifts back into attention and nods, glancing at the rabbit again. He gives a small jerk of his head, and Thor raises his hand towards the time-watch, catching Loki's eye for a second. It's just a minute here. It's just a minute. What's the worst that can happen in a minute?

Thor twists the watch and sees Rocket do the same. The space suit spreads across his frame, and Bruce presses something on the control key and he and Rocket are jerked backwards through space and time.

* * *

They land on Asgard, track down Jane's quarters with minimal difficulty and Thor stands outside of the door with sweaty hands and a wildly beating heart. He should have let Loki come because this would have been so much easier to have Jane simply be unconscious instead of having to  _talk_ to her and-

_You do not belong here._

-and runs smack face-first in someone. Thor stumbles backwards in a dazed panic and grabs at the arms of the other person to steady them, apologies bubbling out of his throat. He should have been  _looking,_ Norns curse it all, because now he's possibly compromised the mission entirely and-

"Thor?"

Oh  _Norns._

Thor's hands snap away from his mother entirely, and his senses buzz deeply in distress as his chest heaves with open panic.  _Oh, Norns, norns, norns-_ he broke the laws of time. Loki would have flat out  _murdered_ him on the spot if he was with them.

His mother is  _right here_ and-

"Son? What's of the matter? I thought that you…" Frigga trails, and then stops as her gaze settles on his face. He's never been terribly self conscious of the eye-patch before, but suddenly he wishes he hadn't thrown out Rocket's offering of an eye in the midst of a dazed panic.

"I'm, uhm," Thor stutters out, and then glances towards Rocket and grabs at the time-watch, twisting it firmly. They can try this again. They can take the Aether from its undisturbed resting peace some millennia before this, and not have to deal with Jane again period.

Or his  _mother._

He sees Rocket take the cue from the corner of his eye and twists his own watch, but nothing happens. There is no now familiar lurch through time as they're shrunk, no armor spreading over their bodies. The time-watch is locked, but it doesn't do anything.

Horror drops to his toes.

No.

_No._

_This wasn't supposed to happen!_

They were  _supposed_ to collect the Aether and then leave! That would be  _that._ No more of this running around nonsense and-A loud expletive escapes him, and he twists at the watch again, and again, and again-but doesn't get any different results.

_They aren't going back._

_They're stuck in 2013._

"...You're not my Thor, are you?" Frigga murmurs softly, and Thor looks up at her desperately.

"You're not supposed to see me," he hisses, "I've made enough messes as it is! I don't need to leave  _this_ one on the day that you're to d-" Frigga presses a hand against his lips, and Thor's eyes widen as he realizes what he almost did.

Frigga gives a little headshake, "I was raised by witches, boy. I know how to handle time warps," she sighs slightly and looks down the hall at the sound of the Einherjar. Frigga grabs at his wrist and beings to pull him forward. To dazed and shocked to be doing much else, Thor follows after her wordlessly. "Come," Frigga insists, waving a hand towards Rocket.

"I swear, lady," Rocket hisses under his breath, gripping a hand around his gun, "no attempted murders."

Frigga's lips curve up, "None," she swears.

She tugs them into a small room that Thor knows is used as a music room for the children of the servants and aids of the palace, and forces them to take a seat on one of the couches. Thor sees Rocket continuing to fiddle with the time-watch from the corner of his eye, but nothing changes.

Frigga sits down on the small table in front of them, her eyes lingering on Rocket's device for a long moment. "What are you doing here?" She questions calmly. Her serenity makes Thor want to grab at his hair and  _scream._ The pressure refuses to alleviate, and he has no idea how to make this any better.

Thor makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and Rocket flicks a hand, "Yeah, sorry, Majesty, but he doesn't talk no more. I'm the interpreter."

Thor's gaze flicks to his feet in humiliation.

He's supposed to be better than this.

"What?" Frigga murmurs, and gently tips his chin up so he's looking at her again, "Did something happen to your tongue?"

Thor gives a slow shake of his head.

"Your voice?"

Another shake.

Frigga's eyes narrow, and Rocket rests a reassuring hand on Thor's upper arm for a second, "Yeah, a diagnosis hasn't been satisfactorily determined yet, so I wouldn't push. Augh!" He hisses as one of the wires in the watch zaps him.

"What is this?" His mother questions, lifting up the device on Thor's hand.

"Means of travel," Rocket grumbles, "but it's broken."

Thor makes a little noise in the back of his throat and tilts his head forward to rest against his knees. Oh, Norns above, this is a  _disaster._ He's never going back to 2023. He's not going to see Loki again, nor the other Avengers, they won't reverse the snap, and Thanos will remain victor.

He failed.

"Ah." Frigga hums, "Would you mind giving me and my son a moment alone? There's a room extended to this that has musical instruments. If you don't  _touch_ anything, you are welcome to continue to fiddle there. When we have finished, I can attempt to help you with my sedir."

Thor almost sees the raccoon roll his eyes, but he nonetheless gets to his feet. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure magic will solve all of this."

Frigga doesn't say anything in response, and Rocket exits the room.

"Thor," Frigga's voice is gentle, and she rests a hand on his head softly. Thor flinches to it, but his mother doesn't draw her hand away, instead beginning to stroke his hair. A warm feeling washes through him, and Thor nearly vomits. Frigga's sedir. Checking him for injuries, because she doesn't trust that he would tell her the truth.

Reasonable.

But it still stings.

"My darling son," Frigga sighs, and gently begins to untangle a knot, "you look  _haggard._ When was the last time you ate something?"

Thor shrugs.

He can feel the stare of her disapproval, and shrivels beneath it. Frigga's hands settle on his head for a second, and the sensation is oddly comforting. Warm. "Hmm. Worry not, Dearheart, I am not angry."

Everyone is.

Somewhere, she probably is, too.

Thor sighs.

"Thor," Frigga's voice is gentle, "you are safe here. You must know that."

Thor lifts his head to look up at her and she slides her hands down to take his, blue eyes gently searching his face. How...how does this  _matter_ if he is safe or not? He swallows and parts his lips, trying to fight at that awful monster that grabs at his voice.

His first attempt fails, as does his second, but Frigga is patient and doesn't let irritation show on her face.

It's reassuring.

Thor mouths the words several times before a proper, squeaked syllable slips out: "Sorry." His mind  _reels_ with this revelation. He spoke. He  _always_ has to wait for the monster to release him before he can find success in this, and he  _didn't. How…?_

Frigga gently smooths her thumb over his palm, and the sensation of her touch makes his skin coil beneath the surface in discomfort. "What for?" Frigga questions.

Thor swallows again, trying not to get his hopes up to high should this attempt fail as well, "I...failed you, 'm sorry," Thor flicks his wide eyes to their feet, but Frigga tilts his face back up to him, waiting until he's met her eyes before she speaks:

"I'm certain that, given whatever happened, you tried your hardest. That's all that matters to me, Thor."

Gaining confidence, Thor blurts out: "But I let everyone die." Frigga's brow furrows a little and Thor begins to explain, but the further he goes along the faster his voice picks up speed: " _All_ of them, Mother, and I didn't...this man gathered the Infinity Stones together and killed have half population,  _everywhere,_ and it's my fault because I didn't go for the head and now the Avengers are furious at me and I was supposed to fix this, but instead I let Loki die and now me and Rocket are stuck here because the time-watches aren't working and we  _didn't_ get the Aether to fix what happened, and, and,  _and-_ the blood falls onto my hands. I've spent the last few years hearing that too much to think about anything else.

"I'm so sorry mother, I'm sorry that you have a failure for a son, I'm not worthy to be speaking with you," Thor breathes out the last part, and Frigga makes the face he's long since come to associate with when she's uncertain how to respond. She makes a little humming noise.

.

.

[THEY GO TO THE DARK WORLD]

And- _oh._ Loki moves forward stiffly, trying to keep himself grounded, but the sensation of seeing his corpse is nothing sort of jolting. He's created illusions before, yes, but both Thor and he knew what was going to happen. This was unexpected, and where the blade pierced sings with a whispered pain.

Loki draws up beside him, and rests a hand on Thor's shoulder wordlessly. Thor's gaze lifts to him, and Loki feels the jump beneath his fingers. His mouth opens soundlessly, but beyond a slight squeak, nothing else verbalizes.

* * *

Clint's breath escapes him in a little puff, but he breathes out steadily, trying to keep his hands from shaking. This was an awful idea. This was an awful, awful idea. What was he thinking? It would all work out just because he willed it to? That's not how anything works, and he's become a painful benefactor of that realization since he was born.

_God, please, if you're listening, don't...don't let this go as terribly as I'm thinking. Thanks._

"You're going to attract Dragr, calm yourself," Loki whispers with some bite beside him, and Clint has to keep himself from physically jumping at the high-pitched wail of his borrowed voice. Clint doesn't even know the agent that he stole from, and it feels like he should. He doesn't frequent London, though, so he wouldn't know the poor sod.

"Attract what?" Clint questions in confusion and tilts his body to allow another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to pass between the two of them. He's careful, as instructed, not to let the busy operative touch or brush against him.

Gosh, this was a terrible idea.

Why did he agree to go? (Thor is the only other person who somewhat knows what he's doing with Steve, stupid. Taking both the Asgardians would have been another one of those awful ideas you're famous for).

It's supposed to be simple. Clint can handle simple. Loki looks perfectly relaxed with his borrowed face, so Clint has no idea why the anxiety keeps festering.

You do not belong here.

Clint shakes off the whisper, and turns the hall sharply when Loki does. After they've passed two more agents, Loki glances at him. "Dragr. Raised spirits of the restless dead. Don't you have those here?"

"Yeah." Clint affirms, "They're called ghosts. How is my anxiety going to attract them? They smell fear?"

Loki gives him one of those knowing looks. Something Clint's become all-too familiar with since Thor dragged his sorry butt back from the Statesmen three days ago. "They feed off of negative energy," Loki explains offhandedly. "The aura is getting stronger. We're close. Are you ready?"

No.

"Yes," Clint assures, glancing down the hall to check for any more stray agents before he flicks his gaze up towards the security cameras. Steve is waiting on them, and they really need to get the Aether quickly. Loki really should still be there, but they didn't have much of a choice.

Clint is a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and therefore familiar with the barracks basic layout, and Loki can cloak them. If they'd just gotten the stupid Stone before Dr. Foster lost it to Malekith, that would have been grand. Instead, they spent a majority of that day panicking as Loki bled a "demon" from Steve's head. The purge itself took a little under a minute, but he was warding off further attempts for the rest of the morning.

It was horrifying.

Clint has never seen Steve bleed so freely from his face. Maybe that's why he jumped ship, too. He can't stand to wipe more blood as the named demon tries to slip into the captain's head again.

Demons.

Because yeah. Those are a thing, apparently. This is turning out to be one of the worst and strangest handful of days of his life, only topped by the Vanishing. They should have left Loki with Steve. At least then he would have had the reassurance that should the demon-thing attack again, Loki could stop it.

Now they're running around London's S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters so they can steal the Aether and bring it back to Asgard, and then finally go home. Maybe. That depends on Steve's condition.

Demons.

Who-?

Loki stops in front of a door suddenly, and it takes every ounce of self control Clint still possess to not barrel into him. He rocks forward on his toes and shifts his weight back to his heals as Loki rests a palm flat on the surface. "It's in here," he murmurs softly.

Clint nods. Alright. They can do this.

Curse the stupid demon. They'd already have the Aether if it wasn't for them.

He draws an arrow from his quiver and turns, locating the camera for this hall after a second. He draws back to his cheek and squints a little before firing. The arrow lands with a solidified thump and Clint sees the eletrictly bounce from the tip into the camera, shutting it down completely.

Clint draws another arrow, and anxiously flexes his fingers around his bow with his right hand. "That's two minutes before they swarm us," Clint announces, turning back to the Asgardian. Loki nods absentmindedly, hands over the keypad with some sort of white-yellow-thing. It sort of looks like a sheet of glass, but misty and dripping.

Loki flexes his hands over the center of the white-thing and the door flashes green a moment later, unlocking with a soft hiss. Loki pushes the door open, mist fading. Clint follows after him, bow at the ready and fires at the two guards with stun before they have time to react.

The two bodies hit the ground with a thump, and Clint does a quick survey of the room. It's about as big as a basic storage unit in any other S.H.I.E.L.D. base Clint's seen, but the one difference is that it is completely void of anything save a small table in the middle where a glass compartment is sitting. It reminds Clint of the storage unit the Tesseract was in as Thor used it to return to Asgard, but it's only purpose seems to be holding the Aether, not using it.

The Stone looks...not how Clint was expecting. Thor mentioned it was fluid back at base-before everything, before Vorimir, before-so he didn't expect it to be a solid Stone like the others were. But it's still weird. It looks like floating, angry Kool Aid.

"Okay," Clint breathes out slowly, shutting the door behind them. It locks with a soft hiss. "We got it. Let's get back to the others so we can leave this stupid crap behind us, yeah?"

Are there cameras? Clint didn't immediately see any when he stepped into the room, but he does another quick check. The goal of this is to be as invisible as possible.

Loki doesn't answer, moving forward quietly towards the table. Something has changed about his posture, and it has nothing to do with the figure he shape-shifted into twenty minutes prior when they snuck into the base. His bones made the weirdest grinding noise and Clint is never going to think about broken bones the same again.

"Loki?" Clint questions hesitantly, moving towards the Asgardian.

Something isn't right.

You do not belong-yeah, yeah, I know, shut up.

Loki's lips are pressed into a thin line before he slowly lifts his hands up over the glass. The Aether moves towards the Asgardian's hands as if drawn there, and Clint represses a jump as it slams against the glass. It's only a faint little tink noise, but it's unsettling.

These Stones are alive.

He'd be better off not to forget that.

It moved.

Oh, gosh, it moved towards Loki.

And-what the heck is he-Loki's pulled a dagger from somewhere and Clint has half a second to process a state of confusion, and then "well that can't be good" before Loki jams the weapon into the glass. It immediately cracks, and something in Clint's stomach flips. What the heck is he-

The sound of the cracking snaps him from his reverie, and Clint grabs at the Asgardian's forearm and wishes with an aching sort of soreness in his chest that Thor had agreed to go with them.

Why did he have to agree to this.

Thor would have been better. Heck, Rocket would have been better, and he and Loki aren't exactly on good terms.

"What are you doing?" Clint hisses, noting with some horror that the Aether is beginning to swim towards the cracks. No, he changes his first statement. It's not Kool Aid. It's fine grands of sand. Loki pulls that dagger out and it's going to come spilling out. What will they do then?

Loki attempts to squirm from Clint's grip without success before a sharp pain ripples across his stomach. Clint staggers back from the kick, hand releasing the Asgardian as a wheeze slips through startled his lips.

Loki agreed to-

_What is he doing-?_

_("We missed the window. What are we going to do? I don't know how to fight off a bloody demon, but someone has to get that stupid Stone."_

_"Yes."_

_"So we do what, exactly, Psychopath? Run around? We need to get the Aether."_

_"I know. Thor knows enough about basic treatment to keep the captain's brain from exploding while you and I retrieve the Aether on Earth. S.H.I.E.L.D. claimed it for a few days, yes? Before Thor took it back to Asgard again.")_

Loki twists the dagger, forming a bigger hole and Clint swears softly under his breath. No. This can't be happening. Loki was...he doesn't know. But he was helping. He saved Steve's life. Clint thought that it...what was he thinking? Just because Loki pulls a demon from Steve's head that it immediately means he's going to help them fix the problem?

This man worked for Thanos six years ago.

He stole Clint's mind.

He slaughtered innocents in the Attack of New York.

None of this would have happened if Loki hadn't dragged Thanos's attention to Earth in the first place. Nat would still be alive. Laura and his kids. Tony's kid. Wanda. Sam. If Asgard hadn't left that stupid cube on Earth for who-knows-how-long, then the blood of innocents wouldn't be pooling at their feet.

And now Loki plans on doing something else to wash their hands red with.

Why did he agree so easily to let freakin' Loki be the second operative on this mission? He's a wild card. He's not their ally. He's not their friend. He doesn't care about them. This isn't betrayal, because Clint had never expected him to help them finish this in the first place.

Clint draws his bow and raises an arrow to his cheek, "Put down the container." His voice is flat. It isn't a request.

Loki looks up at him. His face is placid, but his eyes are a whirlwind of emotions he can't place that well. Raw. Panic. Something else. The Asgardian's lip twitches a little. "As you wish, Hawk."

Loki drops it. Clint lurches to grab it, but he's too late. (Always too late). The glass slams into the hard ground in between them, and it shatters immediately from the pre-broken area.

Clint staggers backwards as the Aether surges free of its prison, hissing and whispering around their feet. An awful dread seizes his chest, and his heart picks up speed. The headache dully present in the back of his mind flares and his stomach lurches.

The Aether swims across the ground, prodding and poking at everything. Clint's lips twist with horror as he scrambles away, trying to find higher ground where the thing won't touch him. The red sandy-angry Kool Aid, swirls towards his boots before it's suddenly jerked backwards. Clint's gaze follows the Stone from his feet to the source of the pull and sees that Loki is...calling the red substance to him. It's snaking up his arms and Clint's eyes widen with disgust as he realize that Loki is, in fact, absorbing it into his skin.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn't supposed to happen!

Loki staggers to his knees, inhaling raggedly as he shakes and Clint turns his head away as he hears the awful popping sound of joints clicking in and out of place as Loki shape-shifts. The cold feeling of Loki's illusion wrapped around his skin ceases, and Clint flicks his head up. Loki is on his hands and knees, still, hand clawing at his throat as he coughs.

Move.

There's still time to fix this.

Clint shoves himself forward, and raises his bow firing an arrow from stiff fingers. What would have been a perfect kill shot through Loki's skull is repelled as a red orbish-like dome deflects it violently. Clint is thrown back towards the opposing wall, hard, and his heart twists with an ache as his thoughts stray first to Wanda.

She's not here. This isn't hers.

So what was that? Didn't...ugh, Clint struggles to pull up memories of the reports. He remembers reading somewhere, maybe Thor told him, but the Aether has a defensive system. It won't let it's host be harmed, and Clint trying to shove an arrow through Loki's head constitutes that, apparently.

Great.

What now?

Breathing unsteadily, Clint pulls himself off the ground to see that Loki has somewhat shoved himself to his own, gripping at the table like it's his only support. Faintly, his mind registers the sounds of S.H.I.E.L.D. beginning to break through the door, but that seems to triveal.

Clint draws another arrow, "Is this all some sort of game to you?" He seethes, "People's lives are on the line."

Loki coughs, wiping something that looks like blood from the side of his mouth. "I am aware, Hawk," his voice has lost the control, and now sounds hoarse and sickly. "It is why I have to do this."

"Do what?" Clint demands, advancing forward slowly.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is getting closer. Clint can hear them shouting.

Loki shakes his head, "You wouldn't understand."

Probably not, but that's a good thing, right? Clint doesn't exactly want to be privy to what runs around a murderer's mind. (Look in the mirror and you'll know, Barton).

A faint moan whispers from the sorcerer's lips, and Loki looks like he's trying very hard not to be sick all over the floor. Clint shakes his head with disgust. He knew this was coming. He should have seen it sooner, but he knew it was coming.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is beginning to break through the door.

Loki is holding the Aether. He is still technically a carrier. Clint has to take him back. (How? Loki was the one who got them here in the first place). Without much thought on it, Clint dives forward and tackles Loki fully to the floor. They briefly struggle for a second before Clint slams a fist into Loki's left shoulder.

He doesn't realize until Loki cries out loudly that that was the shoulder that Rocket shot three days ago.

...Whoops?

The door breaks open and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents begin to pour into the room, shouting words that Clint doesn't hear very clearly. It sounds almost murky. A dull panic thrums in his stomach (they weren't supposed to see them! Crap, crap, crap-).

Loki's wild eyes meet with his for a brief second before he grabs at Clint's wrist tightly and slams his other fist against the ground. The solid feeling vanishes completely as they tumble through open space in the teleportation.

They leave S.H.I.E.L.D. behind to gape at where they were standing.

_You do not belong here._

Rather than the tumbling through space and time for eternity like Clint was half expecting, or Loki to simply  _leave_ him there, they stumble back onto the field of Asgard.

Later, after Thor has had a proper amount of time to scowl at them silently as Rocket yells and waves his gun around, Clint overhears Loki quietly crying. It's so off-character that it takes Clint a second to recognize the noise for what it is.

Thor stormed off to clear his head ten minutes ago, and Rocket is...doing some sort of Rocket thing out of view. Clint was left in charge of looking after Steve, and Loki was sort of scowled into sitting down against a rock and told not to move. Clint really can't much of the conversation, and somewhere he's pretty sure that's not a good thing.

Loki's skin has stretched and he's waxy and pale. He looks sick.

And he's crying.

After a small internal battle, Clint sits down next to him. Loki immediately stiffens, and Clint blows out a breath. "You're an egotistical moron. I hate you." He says sincerely. "There. We can pretty well clear up that I'm not going to shower you with pity. But tears? You already caused a mess. Weeping because you wanted it to be worse?"

Loki softly closes his eyes, openly wincing a second later and rubbing at where his heart is located underneath his clothing. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I didn't…" another wince with a following grimace, "think that this would...happen."

An apology?

What?

Clint lifts an eyebrow. "You and I both know that you only agreed to help me get the Aether so you could  _steal_ it. I'm not stupid."

Loki gives a flat laugh, "No. No. But I was supposed…" he shakes his head, rubbing at his temples, "reality would fold to my will, and I was going to save my mother...but it was a foolish impulse...not much more. It wouldn't have been fair to her or me, but I…" he trails, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

An underlying hiss of worry releases suddenly, and Clint can really only blink. His thoughts have skittered, hiccuped, and then proceeded but he can't make any sense of the mesh left behind. Loki was...oh.

No malicious plot, then.

Just an attempt to…

Oh.

Clint doesn't want to ask, but does anyway after flicking a glance towards Steve to check on him, "But…?"

Loki lifts up his hands and Clint sees a red pulsing through his palms. The Aether. It looks so gross beneath skin. "It's eating me." Clint doubletakes at the admission, lips parting openly with surprise. Loki shakes his head, "Specifically, my sedir. I can't use it. I was going to save her, and I can't without the Aether stopping my heart."

Loki grits his jaw and slams his head back against the rock in anger. He looks gutted.

Clint can't think of anything to say, so he doesn't.

Loki doesn't speak again until Steve wakes up.

* * *

Thor rests a hand on his shoulder to steady him, and a sickening realization settles like lead in bones, "How long was I out?" He questions, and the four look between each other before Rocket gives a little breath.

"About three days."

Steve's eyes widen, and a loud expletive slips from his lips. The Aether. They were supposed to get the Aether, and this means that their window of opportunity is  _gone._ They were waiting for the morning, but if the morning never came and it didn't-

Steve scrambles up, but his feet don't like that idea and he's tumbling to his knees, Clint bracing him a moment later. "No, no, no," Steve says, letting out a frustrated breath, "we were supposed to get the Stone, and we  _didn't-_ "

"We  _did,"_ Rocket says, helping Clint shove him back into a sitting position. "We couldn't risk travel with you like this and Loki is the only person would help, so we haven't gone back to 2023 yet, but we have it. Calm down."

Confusion flutters through him, but it's not unusual now. This feels like a disaster. "I don't…" Steve starts, trailing, but Loki releases a little breath and lifts up his palm beneath Steve's eyes. Interwoven between faint blood vessels, Steve can make out a thick red one that doesn't look natural. He's hasn't seen the Aether in person, only videos of London, but he recognizes it all the same.

He lifts his gaze to Loki, horrified, "You-"

The sickly pallor of his skin, and the over all corpse-like-state of his appearance makes an awful sense now. Loki has an  _Infinity Stone in his blood._

"The Aether has a defense system," Loki begins, and now that he's listening for it, he can hear the rattle in the voice, "and when we attempted to inject Ms. Foster with Rocket's needle, it almost set that off. Given that we were in a confined space and my past and Thor's past selves mere feet in front of us, we couldn't risk it. I absorbed it from Ms. Foster."

"Then…" Steve trails, looking around them, "Where  _are_ we?"

* * *

You have got to be freakin' kidding me.

A little over two days with almost no contact, no explanations for the wait beyond Steve's crypt message, no reason to not fear that they've all been brutally slaughtered, and Tony has to be the one on guard when the five finally do collapse back onto the platform.

He was even being nice. It was supposed to be Bruce's shift, but one hard stare at his fellow scientist's face caused Tony to stem his desire to sleep and he sent him back to bed. They'd been keeping a watch on the platform since they re-callbuirated it to bring the others back here, and without any immediate successes, but no panicked words from Steve beyond the fact that Thor and Rocket failed to collect the Aether, Tony had assumed they were only delayed.

He didn't want to contemplate other possibilities, so he was happily living in his bubble of ignorance until they would arrive again.

But he didn't want to be the one on duty when they did stumble back into the proper time again. Let alone in the middle of the night with half a brain and fumes from mostly stolen coffee via Natasha's supply. She has a small section dedicated to when she needed to stay awake, and it is some of worst, most bitter tasting drink he has ever had in his life.

Well, a part of him quietly muses as he jumps, swearing loudly at the five's sudden return, at least the math worked this time.

You have got to be freakin' kidding me.

"Tony!" Clint's voice rings up first among the scattered mess, but Tony is already on his feet, coffee on the table, and rapidly taking the steps needed to cross the distance between them. Steve is strung up across Clint's shoulders, looking as if he got hit by a bus. His hair is sticking up in weird angles, and he's pale, waxy, with dark circles under his eyes.

On his left is Thor, with Loki lifted in his arms in a bridal style that probably would have made Tony laugh out loud or make some nasty joke if it was any other circumstance. Thor's face is still thin, and his eye wildly flitting across everything. He can't tell much from the harsh angle, but Loki looks outright dead with floppy limbs, bruises, and what the heck is wrong with his skin? Is it glowing?

Between the two disasters is Rocket, who looks remarkably unharmed, if a little ruffled.

Tony swears again, and moves forward to Clint first, because Steve is hanging off of the archer and needs to be supported from both sides. "What the heck happened? A building fall on you?" He questions harshly, but he and Clint move forward in unspoken agreement to get to the medical room. The others follow after them wordlessly.

"No," Steve grumbles, but his voice is raspy. Awake, then, that's good.

"I wish," Clint answers. "Would've been easier to deal with."

How?

"FRIDAY, prep the med room and tell Bruce to get his butt down there faster than escape velocity." Tony commands, "Loki's unconscious-" dead? "-and Cap's getting there."

"Am not." Steve protests, and Tony resists the sudden and very strong urge to hit him, or rattle him back and forth until the brains he knows are in there turn back on. Were they hit by some sort of defense system? How hard is it to get an Infinity Stone out of a woman who's barely above five feet?

"In that phrasing, Boss?" FRIDAY snarks, and Tony catches one of her camera's with a scowl.

"Brat," he mutters under his breath.

"Dr. Banner has been alerted to the situation," FRIDAY assures about a minute later, "he's on his way."

They make it to medical about six minutes later, and, as Clint helps Steve onto one of the cots, Tony turns around to help Thor lay Loki down. The Asgardian's breath is making weird hitching noises, and it doesn't sound full or very rhythmatic. He can't see any obvious injury, but it must be there somewhere for the Asgardian to be reacting this terribly.

And-what on earth is wrong with his skin?

Tony turns back to Steve, but beyond helping Clint battle him into laying down, he feels oddly helpless. He's trained in basic medical procedure, but really not enough to help anything like this.

Rocket climbs up onto the bed beside Steve, expression grim, "Stark," he addresses, and Tony turns to him. "We've got to get the Aether out of him," Rocket gestures behind Tony, and he whirls to follow the claw to Loki. The Aether is...it's...oh. Well crap.

"What the heck happened to a containment!?" Tony demands, "You had your tubey-needle-thing. It was supposed to hold it!"

"Well, surprise sunshine, It didn't!" Rocket answers, voice firm and frayed, "No one warned me that the Aether has a defense system to protect its host. It didn't take well to when I tried to stab him in the arm after the idiot freakin' absorbed it."

Absorbed-!?

"Why would he absorb it!?"

"Because Clint is a klutz-" Clint fidgets at Rocket's words visibly, enough to catch Tony's attention, "-and dropped the stupid container it was in, and glass shatters. Especially when it's pathetic Terran glass, and not meant to be holding an Infinity Stone that can literally fold reality and doesn't take well to being held captive. So yeah, we didn't have many options."

That's not the whole story.

It's a terrible lie.

A quick glance towards Clint's face reaffirms this thought in his head again, but Tony doesn't push like he wants to. It seems better to let this one lie out of his hands.

Tony knows that his face is showing open agitation. More than he would like, but he can't wipe it from his features. The Aether. The Aether is in the psychopathic invader who, more than a decade ago, tried to kill all of them, conquer the planet, and destroyed the lives of hundreds of people. Tony saw footage from London, he knows what a massive mess the Aether can make, and that is in Loki's blood.

Can he use it?

Gosh, he hates this.

Who's idea was it to drag Loki back with them as a guide? Because Tony's going to hit them.

Tony breathes out slowly, trying to ground himself. He wants to talk to Pepper, but that's not an option right now. He turns back to Rocket, "What do we do? If we can't just stab him with a needle, then…?"

"I don't know," Rocket admits, shrugging, "but we need to get it out."

"Tony," Steve's voice is weak, but Tony ignores it. Dang it, this wasn't supposed to be his job. Rocket assured them that he could handle it, and, having more experience in that department than any of the rest of them, Tony had completely let him have at it.

"Tony," Steve tries again.

Tony waves a hand, "You're not stupid. Fix it." He demands. Tony will only make it worse if he tries, but Rocket will be successful. Tony trusts him with that.

Rocket scowls at him a little, but it's less murderous than previous expressions, so Tony takes some comfort in that.

"Tony," Steve whispers, and Tony whirls around to face him, trying to keep irritation off his face.

"What?" His voice is harder than he meant for it to be, but Steve doesn't seem deeply unsettled by this fact. Clint is still standing next to him, watching the captain with an expression that Tony can't quite place. It's something similar to what he was wearing after they pulled Tasha and Steve out of Japan.

Steve licks his chapped lips, lifting up a hand to grab at his forearm, his blue eyes earnest, "Wanda was-"

The door to the room is thrown open at last, and Bruce steps into the room. His hair is sticking in multiple directions, and Tony is filled with a sudden pang that, despite how exhausted his teammate looks, they can't send Bruce back to bed. Whatever happened they need him to be here for. They don't have any choice on the matter.

He wishes they did.

Bruce looks between them all, eyes calculating and assessing data before he sighs deeply. "Who's the most dead?" He questions. His voice is laced with an attempt at humor and this is somewhat reassuring. At least Tony can rest in peace knowing that Bruce isn't going to hold this against him for the rest of his life.

Humor is good.

All hands lift, almost in sync, to Loki's prone form on the hospital bed. There isn't any question, and Tony thinks that, given a different set of circumstances, the utter agreement between them all would have been hilarious. For right now, it isn't.

Bruce's lip twitches up in a slight smile before he moves towards the Asgardian. His fingers press for a pulse, but Tony cant see his expression from this angle. Given how pale Thor has gone, it isn't anything good.

"Alright, everyone out," Bruce commands, turning back to them and waves his hands, "I have sick people to care for and none of you are helping. You're distracting me."

Rude.

"Do you need an assistant?" The words are his. He's pretty sure, but they sound faint. Distant. Unconnected from himself. Realities away.

"I have one," Bruce says, opening a cabinet and pulling out a handful of supplies, "FRIDAY. If I need another set of hands, I'll call someone in," he promises, and looks over at them again. "For now, go sit down. Get some food." He scowls when none of them move. "Now."

Reluctantly, they slip from the room. Thor closes the door behind them, his hand lingering on the handle as Rocket slumps against the ground letting out a faint groan. "I am done," he declares, "absolutely done."

Tony breathes out quietly and nods, "Yeah. Foods in the fridge."

"That means moving," Rocket grumbles, but nonetheless gets to up with a heaved breath.

**.**

"So the Aether?" Tony probes Clint, and sees the archer's spin stiffen a little, "I've received dozens of lies about what happened, and I expect the truth and nothing but the truth from you, Birdbrain."

"This isn't court." Clint counters.

* * *

Tiredly, Steve slowly blinks his eyes open to see a thick overcast of clouds. He's squinting up at them, trying to make sense of why it's significant, when Rocket's head blocks his vision. The raccoon gives him a hard stare before turning to look away, "He's awake!"

Was he sleeping?

Steve slowly makes his way into a sitting position and has about a second to congratulate himself on doing that much before a hand slams against his forehead. He jumps, making a pained noise as he feels a forgien presence whisper in the back of his mind before retreating.

"Anything?" Clint asks warily, and Steve looks up to see him standing behind Loki's right. The Asgardian is squatted down next to him with a furrowed expression, and Thor is behind his sibling's left with a similar face.

"Not so far," Loki answers.

"...is that good?" Clint presses, and Loki gives a mirthless huff.

"That's hard to determine, Hawk," the Asgardian says, and then turns to him. The full extent of his attention is almost stifling, and Steve can't quite help when he draws away a little. Loki pulls his hand away from Steve's forehead; staring at him like he's some sort of puzzle. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Steve admits reluctantly, "mostly confused. What happened?"

A look passes between the four, and Clint's lips thin tightly as Loki's face pinches a little. "From what I understand, someone invaded your mind last night."

Steve  _feels_ his face pale and drop with horror and surprise. It wasn't a dream. Oh, gosh, it  _wasn't_ a dream, but it should have been because  _that wasn't_ "someone"  _that was Wanda._ She's been in his thoughts before. Sometimes in their missions she would open telepathic links between them when comms broke down or it was necessary for stealth. He's felt her in his head before enough to recognize her, and there is no way that should be possible.

"Wanda!" Steve blurts out without meaning to, and, like a five-year-old that's said a bad word, promptly slams his hands over his mouth. Loki's expression furrows further, but Steve sees the others' faces dawn with recognition.

Clint regains himself first, and his voice is shaky, "You felt her? How?"

Loki lifts up a hand before Steve can answer, "Who is Wanda?"

A flurry of answers immediately spills from every mouth but Thor's, yet Loki doesn't seem frustrated by the overlapping words in the slightest. He listens until they all quiet, and then turns to Thor. "Midgard's sorcerers can't  _do_ telepathy."

How does he know that?

Thor shrugs and makes a so-so gesture with his hands.

Loki's lips purse slightly before he shakes his head and looks back at Steve, "Regardless, this woman attempted to invade your head, but the distance between you two was putting significant strain on your mind. It was pulling your head apart."

Steve stomach clenches a little, "And?"

"I...threw her out," Loki explains, hands fluttering as if flustered, "there wasn't much fight, but I'm still seeing if she'll try again."

Suddenly everything seems to make a  _click_ in his head, and he sits up fully, grabbing at nothing. "Wait-no,  _don't,"_ he demands, voice harsher than he meant for it to be, "let her do it."

Silence settles over the group for a long second; as if they're attempting to contemplate a large bout of stupidity, find themselves incapable, and then try again. Loki regains himself first, and his lips part, tongue noiseness for a moment before he speaks, "I really don't think that-"

"No, you don't understand," Steve insists, "Bucky was there-Tony's kid, and Dr. Strange, and-"

Loki grabs his shoulders, "She is  _tearing_ apart your brain, Captain. I don't care  _who_ you claim to have seen. You woke us with your screaming."

Steve stills, his tongue suddenly heavy. That's...how...he doesn't remember that.

"I...what?" Steve questions helplessly.

"Yeah," Rocket inputs, "howling like you were getting an arm severed or something."

Oh.

Clint's rubbing at his forehead, and the action catches Steve's attention, "I don't understand. She's been dead for five years, and there is  _no way_ that she could contact you." Clint says.

"She  _was_ there," Steve insists.

Loki frowns, "Dead? As in she was slain in battle?"

"No, she vanished after Thanos snapped," Steve answers, rubbing under his eyes in frustration and confusion. He is  _so_ tired.

"Oh,  _oh-"_ Loki breathes sharply, and turns to Thor, "she's in the Soul Stone, brother, and you know that means there is the possibility that she could reach out."

Thor's eye widens and he forms a soundless "oh".

"I don't understand," Steve says, looking between the two sibilngs, "hasn't she been in the Soul Stone since the snap?"

"Likely," Loki assures, "but the Soul Stone was destroyed, so I imagine they've been wandering spirits since their bodies and minds were taken. But you brought the Stone  _back_ to the present, and they were pulled into the Stone as a result of Romanov opening the door for them again. If she hadn't, they would have been formless, and you snapping your fingers again wouldn't have mattered."

Natasha opening the…

But if the Vanished aren't  _dead_ because of Natasha then…

_Then…_

"Nat's dead," Rocket states firmly, if a little shaken, "she couldn't have opened the door for anyone.  _She's too busy being dead."_

Loki shakes his head, shifting his weight from his right side and folds his arms across his chest. "No, she's in the Soul Stone."

Steve's stomach does a hopeful fluttering that he immediately tries to quell. He can't jump at this. He's tired of getting his hopes up only to have them crushed. Every solution since 2018 has made a disaster or simply not worked. Scott wasn't the first time they tried to fix this, he's just the one they've made the most progress with.

Steve  _wants_ Natasha to come back. He wants her to live and be happy, but he can't grasp this with both hands.

"What?" The question fell from his lips, but he hardly recognizes his own voice. It sounds faint, almost sickly.

Loki looks between them before sighing deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose as if amazed by their stupidity. "What I know of the Soul Stone is admittedly limited. Asgard has- _had_  it's resources, but most of what I learned of it came from a place I don't feel inclined to share. A soul for a soul is what I've heard, but what I  _know_ is that Agent Romanov gave her soul for the Stone. But this isn't the first time the trade has been done, Captain."

And that-

The Soul Stone has been traded for before...but if that  _is_ the case, then the Stone has to go back to whatever hole it crawled out of to  _make_  the trade again, otherwise it  _should_ have been running around the universe like the other five. Natasha and Gamora's lives were given for the Stone, but they couldn't have done that unless the Stone was returned.

"What are you saying?" Clint's voice is barely above a breath.

Loki's gaze flicks to the archer for a moment before returning to him, "I'm  _saying_  that you have to bargain for her soul again. She was traded for the Stone, you have to trade the Stone for her."

_Clint traded my soul, and you need to trade to get it back._

Rocket looks as if he's been slapped, and murmurs a word under his breath Steve thinks is "Gamora". Clint presses the back of his hand against his mouth. Thor's breath catches. They can still save Natasha. They can still bring her back. She's not dead. Not  _really. They can still fix this._

"What do we have to do?" Steve questions.

Loki shakes his head and shrugs a little, "I'm uncertain. I've never traded for it before, and the only person I suspect has is on Alfheim. Rotting, I should add, he's been dead for over two centuries." Loki rubs at his forehead as if trying to keep back a headache, "Thirst for knowledge satisfied? You've made a mess of time and broken the laws of Yggdrasil, but who am I to judge?"

Steve's stance shifts a little, "Do you know anything else about the Stone?"

"No," Loki promises, "but even if I did, why would I tell you?"

"Because you're  _supposed_  to be helping us, Psychopath _,_ " Clint hisses, "and this information would have been helpful  _yesterday._ "

Loki looks up at him, there is no anger in his eyes, only a wary defeat, "And if I had, then what? It serves no greater purpose now then it would have then."

Clint's fist clenches, but Thor shifts pointedly. As a warning.

"Hawk," Loki's voice is patient, but drained, "it didn't occur to me that you wouldn't know because I was a little busy being  _shot._ I heard you talking about returning her, and I assumed that's what you meant."

"We were just going to snap her back into existence," Steve admits, and Loki's lips split into a surprised, but strangely delighted laughter.

"And you think that simply because you had the six singulaturies, that if you  _wanted_ it enough, she'd return?" Loki asks rhetorically, shaking his head, " _Morons._ You  _have_ to trade for the retrieval of the soul, there is no other way to return her."

"And what the heck are we supposed to  _trade!?"_ Clint demands sharply.

"I don't know!" Loki hisses, "I don't know  _everything_ about the Soul Stone _._ Asgard hasn't cared, and my source was...it wasn't exactly a  _deeply_ enlightening discussion. Or really a discussion." Loki adds the last part after a hesitation, and shakes his head as if trying to jar something out of it. He looks dizzy, and Steve is suddenly aware of just how pale he is. He looks white among the dark background.

"Great!" Clint throws his hands up, "So we can save her, but there's no way to  _save_ her."

"This may come as a surprise to you, Agent Barton, but necromancy has never been much of a hobby of mine," Loki snips, "I can't pull the answer out of a  _hat."_

Clint turns, jerking a hand out, " _Stop_ trying to be  _funny!_ The only reason she's dead is because of  _Asgard_ -it ruined  _everything._ If you had never stepped foot here and stopped treating Earth like your rubbish bin, then Nat would still be alive, and Laura and my kids and-and-and you killed  _everyone_ and you're not even  _sorry_ -"

"Clint, please," Thor's voice is small.

* * *

Nebula's gun digs deeper into his wet hair and faintly he hears the clipping noise as plastic lands on the ground. A water bottle. She dumped a water bottle over his head. The gun hurts. His hands keep shaking.

He's going to fall on his nose.

He licks his dry, split lips and quietly longs for water. A ragged breath escapes his chest, but he clenches his fists tightly. Thor is right there. He doesn't have to do this again. He's not  _going_ to.

"No," Loki whispers, and the gun digs deeper into his skull. He flinches at the sensation, and finally notices that the entire room is darker than it should be. The only light comes from the large window on in front of him, but that's dimming. There isn't even the persistent sound of the Midgardian machines.

There is no power.

A deep coil of dread tightens around him like a noose.

"You think this some sort of game?" Nebula hisses, " _Get. Up."_

Loki digs his nails into his palm and he forces his shaking nerves to settle. " _No,"_ he repeats, "I thought you were stuffed into a room somewhere. You're hardly someone parading enough importance to direct me anymore."

Nebula's eyes flash, and she slams the butt of her gun against his head. Loki flinches, gasping sharply as he lifts a hand up to reach for the area, but Nebula's cybernetic hand grabs his wrist before he can reach it. With heavy force, she all but drags him up to his feet. Loki sways, hardly able to latch at a center of gravity helpful enough.

His vision is blurring.

Desperately, he reaches for his sedir only to find it shy away from him sharply and angrily. The pain of that is nearly staggering, and he coughs sharply, spitting blood onto the floor. Miss Foster has no idea how  _lucky_ she is that she doesn't carry a drop of sorcery on her. She would have been dead before they made it Svatherheim if she had.

He had it in him for what? An  _hour_ and look what it did to him.

Nebula's gun presses in between his shoulder blades, drawing him back to the present, "You know I'm not afraid to do it, Laufeyson," she hisses, and Loki hates himself for the visible tremble that passes across his spine.

"What do you  _want?"_ Loki hisses, "If you meant to kill me, you would have done it when you  _knocked me out."_

It felt like getting struck head-on by a bolt of  _lightning._

Nebula snorts, but her laughter is dead. "I'm not going to be the person who carries out your death, you've been far too much of an inconvenience to me. Besides, my father's been inventive in his suggestions, and I'd rather like to see them come into play," she snears. Loki squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out sharply.

_My father would like to speak with you, Little King._

" _What_ do you  _want?"_ Loki counters, attempting to squirm from her grip as she tugs him forward. Their feet pass by Thor, and Loki struggles desperately to see if he's breathing, but they move forward to quickly.

_Please. Please. Please._

A glance at the Captain's chest reveals the thin rattle of breath, and he can hear faint moans from his hawk, and the wheezes from the raccoon. Why can't he hear Thor's?

_Please. Please. Please._

Desperation claws through him and he twists, bringing his foot up to ram into her hip. Her grip is torn from him and Loki gyrates, running towards Thor and lands next to him on his knees. He skids somewhat, twitching limbs unable to keep their balance as well as he'd appreciate.

_Please. Please. Please._

Loki lifts his fingers beneath Thor's nose and his eyes squeeze shut a little noise of relief escape him as he feels the faint whisper of air on his fingers. His fingers stray to feel for a pulse, but a hand grabs at his shoulder and pulls him away.

Loki lashes out wildly with his fist, but Nebula grabs his wrist, eyes heated.

She pulls him back and pressure compresses in his chest, "No-wait!  _Let me-"_

Nebula doesn't care. She pulls him back and presses her gun against his head; Loki can't do much more than stagger after her. His nerves still feel jumbled and not like his own. Loki wipes his wet hair away from his face, scowling at the back of Nebula's head. "What do you  _want_ from me?"

Nebula pulls him off of the platform and Loki's stomach sinks with a wailing despair as he sees Stark and Bruce laying face down. Bruce's head is surrounded by a pool of blood and Stark's eyes are closed. He's not close enough to determine if they're breathing or  _alive._

"You're expendable." Nebula says at last, evenly, and Loki's eyebrows furrow. "My father wants the honor of killing them himself," she jerks her head in the Avenger's direction, "but  _you_ can hold Infinity Stones with your bare hands. I can't."

"What…?" Loki's head shakes a little as Nebula drags him out of the garage. The entire building seems to echo and radiate its disapproval with their presence.

"And my father will be pleased to have his dog back," she adds as an almost after thought before tearing open a door and shoving him inside. The sensation of the Infinity Stones rolling power smacks into him face-first, and Loki nearly draws back as his senses heighten the faint whispers begin to murmur at him.

Oh,  _Norns._

_No._

_Not again._

The Stones are all sitting inside of one of the Iron Man gloves. Space, Mind, Time, Soul, Reality, and Power-they're all there. Loki looks back at Nebula for a second eyebrows furrowing. "You don't need me to-"

Nebula  _smiles,_ and Loki's voice dies in his throat.

"I don't," she agrees, "but you don't know what Thanos did to my sister when you slipped your noose with having a door to the Chitauri's portal. It didn't occur to him until later that you spent the entire invasion trying to fail, but Gamora wasn't given food for three weeks because  _she_ was the one who told Ebony when to stop. You nearly killed her, Laufeyson."

No.  _Thanos_ did.

Loki's eyes narrow, "This is vendetta."

"Absolutely." She agrees, jaw gritting, "My father would have caught up with you eventually. I know that you know this. Why wane out the inevitable? He's demanded an audience with you."

_The Tesseract or your brother's head, I assume you have a preference?_

_My father's been meaning to speak with you, Little King._

Loki stares at her, clawing for his sedir in an attempt to formulate  _some_ sort of plan, but nothing comes to mind. His sedir still shies away from him angrily. "He's...he's…" Loki curses how pathetic his voice is. "You...you plan to...what exactly?"

Nebula grabs the glove and points her gun at him, "This isn't  _about_ me," she seethes, "this is for Gamora. She'll see. She'll  _see_ that I'm worthy of her friendship by avenging her. By  _protecting her._ And besides that-my father will be pleased to have you back. I told him you were here and how the Avengers never would have suspected  _anything_ if you hadn't been here.  _I hate you."_

"Mutual." Loki promises, gnawing on his gums sharply.  _Come on, think of something, you idiot._ He can't. Everything is a scattered mess and, for the love of Yggdrasil, will his hands  _please_ stop shaking!?

_What? Silvertongue turn to lead?_

_Shut up._

Nebula shoves the gun in between his shoulder blades and shoves him forward, "Move. My father might be willing to show you mercy by letting you join the Order again, but I won't. You make one move to run and I shoot you. I just want you dead."

_Forbannesler._

Thor.

Thor is still-Bruce was laying in his own blood. He can't do  _anything_ to help them if he's dead. He needs to play with this because he has no other options. He can't touch his sedir because of that Norn's cursed Aether, he has no weapons on his person, and whatever jolt of electricity Nebula shot him with before has messed his nerves up so awfully he doesn't know if he'll ever stop  _grinding_ when he moves.

All he has is his silvertongue.

He takes a step forward, quietly pleading with anyone listening to leave the Avengers and his brother alive long enough for him to return and help. He can fix this. Maybe. Hopefully.  _Please._

"Nebula," Loki starts softly, breathing out slowly as he tries to figure out how to structure this in his head properly. "You  _know_ that this isn't right. You know what the-Thanos plans to do with the Stones and do you  _really_ want to be part of that?"

"It's my father's wish," Nebula says stiffly, "nothing else matters."

Loki digs his teeth into his gums.  _Think. Think. Think._

"And, yet, Gamora has her hesitations with it. She told me, you know, and I know that you're not comfortable with this." He starts, keeping his words flat.

"I'd rather be alive when it's over," Nebula states and Loki realizes that they're moving towards an exit. He hasn't had enough time in this building to map out the exits, but Nebula, apparently, has. How long was she waiting for them?

The blood around Bruce suggests it hasn't been more than an hour.

_Norns._

"Can you guarantee that?" Loki counters, "Your father does not care for you, Nebula. He won't attempt to save you among those who die. You would be better off simply trying to stop him."

"And end up like you?" Nebula returns, voice harsh, "You've already tightened your noose, Little King. He won't give you mercy."

_My father's been meaning to-Shut up._

"He won't give  _you_ mercy."

Nebula grabs at his shoulder sharply, eyes heated, "He will. Once he sees that I'm worthy of it. Stop trying to get into my head, it  _won't_ work."

Her hands have tightened in their agitation, however, and Loki can see that she's unsettled.

"No," Loki agrees without conviction. "But it is  _your_ choice what happens. Gamora would want that. Trust me, as a leading guide in dysfunctional family relationships-"

Nebula slaps him with the butt of her weapon.

Loki's teeth snap onto his tongue, deeply, and he blinks several times with surprise and pain. His vision blurs somewhat, and Loki wipes blood from the edge of his mouth. Nebula shoves him forward harshly.

"Shut  _up."_ She seethes, "You don't  _know_ me."

Loki smiles thinly, sweeping his gaze across her pointedly, "I really don't think there's that much complexity, is there?"

Nebula lets out an audible noise of frustration, "Shut up.  _Shut up!_ I know what you are, murderer, and you are hardly someone to be giving speeches about redemption. My father won't  _let_ me change, and he won't  _let you-_ stop trying to pretend this is anything different. Talk again and I'll rip out your tongue."

Loki doesn't doubt it, and snaps his teeth together so quickly is clicks.

Nebula seems vaguely amused beneath the visible show of despair she's hiding beneath.

The truth of her words stings both of them.

Nebula moves forward and lifts her charred robotic hand against the door's keypad and Loki watches as she easily dismantles the override. With that completed, she shoves her gun against his head and pushes him forward again roughly.

The night air is crisp, but not quite cold. It smells awfully, though. Exactly how he recalls New York in 2012. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and flicks his gaze across the space, looking for an escape route. He can't find one.

Not one where he can reach Thor first.

And he's not leaving his older brother behind again.

Nebula shoves him through the surrounding field of the Avengers Compound, and Loki's gaze flicks up as he sees a thick shadow, not caused by the clouds, swarming over everything. His breath hitches in his chest in recognition.

The  _Sanctuary._

Nebula shoves him through the field, underneath the shadow of the  _Sanctuary,_  and the closer towards figure standing in the distance. Thanos. He skips over his step at the sight.

He's going to be  _ill._

_Your faith is misplaced, Asgardian._

Nebula shoves him forward, "Move," she demands. Loki does so, and can't help as his limbs stiffen. They wont move right, and his hands keep shaking or giving out suddenly from the stupid jitter from the blast.

He didn't find a heartbeat.

Bruce was-

Stark-

_Thor. Thor is still in the building. As is everyone else, including the Hawk._

Thor might be-

The M-Thanos turns when they get close enough, and Loki's lungs tighten with terror. This is different than the  _Statesmen_ somehow. Maybe it's the fact that he-mostly-came to terms with his fate when the Black Order rounded on him with their weapons. He knew he was to die, then, but  _this_ Thor had arrived and suddenly there was hope.

He was such a fool to cling to that.

Whether this timeline or another, he isn't meant for much more than the slaughterhouse.

"Father," Nebula greets, and the Titan's eyes flick to her for a second; something in his gaze Loki can't quite place. Perhaps pride...maybe trepidation. "I come baring gifts," she kneels before him, but Loki refuses to sink his knees. He thinks if he tries he'll only collapse. "The Infinity Gauntlet, and the Jotun traitor."

The Ma-Thanos's gaze lifts from his daughter to him, and Loki feels a tremble pass through him. He clenches his shaking fists by his side. He's quiet for a long moment. "I  _still_ haven't killed you yet?" The Master questions, and there's something frustrated in the question.

Maybe, given different circumstances, Loki would have laughed at that.

Loki parts his lips with effort, but his voice is small, "No, my lord,"

"Hmm, pity," the Master murmurs, then, louder he says: "you know how failure is treated, Little King, it really was a matter of time before you met your proper judgement; but I am sorry." He raises his double bladed sword, and arches his hand to swing it. Loki squeezes his eyes shut, hands graphing to reach his sedir, but it flees from him, leaving only the now familiar burn in its wake.

The metal swings through the air, and Loki prepares for the sting as it hits him, but the noise halts at Nebula's voice: "Wait!"

Loki peels his eyes open, a sharp breath escaping him in disbelief.

What on the  _Nine_ is she doing? She ranted and raved about wanting him dead, and now that the deed is to be done she is suddenly wary?

The Master lifts his gaze to her, "You have done well my daughter, would you not trust my judgement?" The threat is light, but there. Nebula hasn't raised from her knees, the Master hasn't told her that she can, but her gaze keeps flicking between him and her father.

"No, never," she swears, "but think. He was a means to an end with the Tesseract, but there is much more he could do for us, Father. You know the power that hides beneath his skin."

The Master pauses, and then his piercing stare lifts from Nebula to him. Loki firmly stuffs down the urge to vomit. What is she  _doing?_ Nebula mentioned more creative ways to kill him...and maybe this is what...what it was. Controlling his sedir was something they couldn't achieve before his invasion, and it was a small relief. Had his full power been unleashed, Thor's mortals would have been dead before he arrived.

Oh, Norns,  _Thor._

The Master cannot get the Infinity Stones. He  _can't;_ Thor could have died for their safe retrieval. For the retrieval of the trillions of souls that now rest on the Master's head. The Midgardians have just died in an effort to protect this last effort to save them.

Loki is not a hero, that much has been reassured to him enough since birth, but he isn't going to let them die in vain. He once promised Thor to trust his rage, and maybe that's all he has now, because the rest of him is only terrified. He's not brave. Not for this.

"That may be," the Master agrees after some consideration; his weapon draws a little closer to Loki's neck, and his body tenses further. "Maybe your service has not yet met its end. I will let you live, Little King, if you show your willingness to submit. Kiss my boot."

Loki's head flicks up to the Master's, and a knot of heated humiliation slides through his fingers.

This is…

No.

_No._

The Master's face doesn't suggest that this is some sort of joke, and a distant, exhausted part of him, recognizes it as the truth. To expect something different...he's learned better by now. The tip of the blade presses against his neck and slowly, shakily, Loki lowers to his hands and knees.

His throat is dry.

His body jolts with some surprise when Nebula slowly lowers the Infinity Gauntlet to the ground and their eyes briefly meet. Her face is collected, but he can see the faint tremble in her living hand. She gives him a brief nod and Loki's stomach clenches with anticipation.

Her meaning is obvious.

Loki's hands tighten around the dirt, and he stares at his hands for a long second.

Thor is dying.

He has no proof, but he  _knows._ He can feel it with every fiber of his being, and his chest constricts painfully at the thought. He reassured Thor that the sun would shine on them again, but Loki doesn't  _want_ the light if Thor isn't there to bask in it with him.

He resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut before he gives a little nod of agreement.

She flicks her gaze away from him, hand straying slowly to her sword.

He forces his mind to settle, breathes out very slowly and then tilts his head down as if to submit to the Master's request. When he's close enough to the ground, Loki drops completely, rolling swiftly towards Nebula and grabs the Infinity Gauntlet, diving out of the way as the Master's blade slams into the ground beside him.

The Stones thrum with power as they touch his skin, and the sensation rises bile in his throat. He jumps to his feet as Nebula rises to hers with a cry and snaps her swords out, diving at her father with a loud yell.

Loki doesn't look back, but hears the smack as she collides with  _something._ Instead, he adjusts his hold on the Infinity Gauntlet, turns towards the rubble of the Avengers Compound, and beings to  _run._

But that's when the missiles hit.

* * *

Thanos's hand wraps around his throat and drags him off his feet. Loki squirms against the grip, grabbing at the forearm desperately as he tries  _anything_ and  _everything_ to get out. He can't focus enough to teleport and his sedir still feels so raw from the Aether and-

_He is dying._

He is  _actually_ dying.

This is worse than Svaltheriheim. That wasn't expected, it was sharp and brutal, but over in a little less than twenty seconds. This must be going backwards through time. He can feel his throat closing and his lungs burning for air as Nebula and Gamora shout and yell at their father. Loki can't hardly see through tears of pain.

This...this is it.

Thanos is smirking at him, but there's a slight sadness in his eyes that makes him sick.

Loki hears Thor's voice murkily, exclaiming something in panic. Loki squeezes his eyes shut and quietly pleads with his brother not to do anything stupid when he's dead. Or before he's dead. It's  _coming,_ it's  _really_ coming, and he's not-

He was supposed to be better before this happened.

He's not  _ready._

Not after everything.

He's-

Blurry. Fading. His lungs have tightened and are going to burst inside his chest, making a mess. It will hurt, but his throat is raw and it draws the attention away from his lungs without much trouble. His senses are dulling and, his grip slips away from Thanos's hand as his muscles weaken before giving out completely.

This is-

The grip loosens abruptly, and Loki slips down to his knees, gasping and hacking up air. His muscles are akin to liquid, and he wants to weep. No, he  _is_ weeping. Gasping sobs of pain and relief that he can't stop even if he wanted to.

It  _hurts._

Oh, Norns, how  _raw_ everything is.

His hands come to claw at his throat in an attempt to ease the pain, but Thanos's large fingers grip at his hair, dragging him to his knees. Loki sways sluggishly, but can't find the strength to try to struggle. His vision is still blurring, but he forces his gaze up to see what it is that stopped Thanos from killing him properly.

( _He was almost strangled to death. That would have been it. No reserections, no escape plans. (He's never had one before, anyway, only survived from sheer dumb luck))._

_He was almost-_

He has to blink several times before he can make out what it is that Thanos is staring at. Nebula and Gamora are standing on either side of Thor, weapons lifted towards their father and expressions hardened. Thor...Thor is- _What?_

Loki's jaw nearly falls.

_Oh, you moron._

Thor is holding the Infinity Gauntlet with one hand, blood leaking down his nose and from the cuts on his face, but Loki can still distantly make out the ozone in the air. Thor's one eye is glowing and the room is humming with electricity. He blinks again, trying to see through the tears, but it isn't helping because he's still gasping sobs up through his throat.

Weeping like a child.

It's impossible to determine where Thor is looking at with the glowing eye, but Loki can feel his stare. His hands are shaking, Loki realizes. Thanos is talking, but what he's saying exactly Loki can't tell, only picking up the rare word.

Thanos rattles him from his scalp, and Loki can't collapse onto his hands and knees like he'd like to. He's trapped, and he knows that the tears aren't just relief, but based on the fact that something has snapped inside of him, and there isn't enough time for him to put it back together again.

His hearing snaps back into full focus, and Loki can instantly make out the heavy breathing of everyone in the room, the dripping pipes, the sounds of distant battle, and his own gasping sobs.

"-must have a death wish," Thanos says softly, gently, as if reprimanding a child, "I've made my bargain, Asgardian...what's your's?"

Thor's hand tightens around the Gauntlet, and Loki sees Gamora's gaze briefly flick towards his face. It's then that he realizes he's not the only one who's crying.

"I don't have one," Thor hisses out, his voice is low, and Thanos makes a little humming noise. He tugs at his scalp further, and Loki jerks a little as the pain intensifies, biting sharply at his tongue to withhold the cry of pain. He's already weeping like a child, he's  _not_ going do anything else that will force Thor into...into whatever it is that Thanos is trying to-

Oh.

_Oh._

Thanos isn't a merciful being; he wouldn't spare Loki from the goodness of his dead heart. It was because he realized that Loki is still  _useful._ He wants Thor to trade the Gauntlet for his life, and...and Loki knows that Thor is stupid enough to  _do_ it. He's sentimental, and Thanos knows that from tearing through Loki's mind and rebuilding it from scratch and-

No.

_No._

Thanos will take the Gauntlet simply to  _stop_ them, and then he'll kill Thor. And Loki won't let that happen. Not when he can stop it. It's...it's the end. The sun is behind the clouds, and Thanos has taken a gun to it in the first place.

Loki chokes, tasting blood, "Thor," his voice is hoarse, and he can feel his older brother's eye flick towards him. Thanos's are resting on him as well, but his daughter's haven't lowered their weapons, or dared to shift. Both are radiating something Loki can't quite place. Loki lifts his gaze up, and tries to keep the grimace off his lips as he gives Thor a weak smile. It doesn't feel authentic, but he tried.

"Brother, it's okay," Loki whispers, resisting the urge to rub at his neck again, "keep the Stones and unbalance everything, I'll be okay."

Thor's hard expression breaks, and it ripples with open agony, "No,  _no,_ I can't, Loki-Loki-you can't ask this of me. N-n-not  _again!"_

Thanos takes a step forward, dragging Loki with him, and Thor's defenses raise, but there is no Mjolnir, no Stormbreaker. There is just Thor. "I spent a great deal of time with your brother," Thanos says, and Loki resists the urge to vomit, everything feels so  _wrong, "_ I know how his mind works. He's lying to you, Asgardian, give me the Gauntlet and you can walk away from this. You survived the first balance, you are meant to be here."

Loki licks his split lip, "It's okay," he repeats, trying to keep the tremble from his voice, "we'll be okay, brother,"

Thor shakes his head, and gasps sharply before backing up a step, "No,  _no._ I can't, I'm sorry, Loki," He flexes his left hand and Loki's eyes widen, his hands lifting weakly towards his sibling.

"Thor,  _no-"_

Oh, idiot, don't-

Thor shoves the Infinity Gauntlet onto his left hand, and Loki's breath catches in his aching chest as Thor visibly ripples with the waves of power, his veins briefly lighting up with the glow of the Stones before he gasps and nearly topples forward.

Nebula supports his weight, as Gamora levels her sword at Thanos's neck when he makes a move to advance. Thor looks dizzy and Loki knows that he's mouthing something with horror- _how could Thor be so stupid, doesn't he know what the Stones can do to-_ but Thor grins a little crookedly at Thanos and raises a trembling hand, stumbling out " _You_  should have gone for the head," before he snaps.


End file.
